To Destroy a Man
by j3of25
Summary: A series of seemingly unrelated crimes traumatise or injure everyone in Steve's life. Caught in the middle, can he survive as his life seems to fall apart around him? Part 10 up
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer:- The Characters of Steve and Mark Sloan, Jesse Travis, Amanda, CJ and Dion Bentley and the back-story of Diagnosis Murder belong to someone else, I am merely borrowing them in the hope that they won't mind. No infringement of copyright is intended and no profit is being made from this enterprise. The rest of the original characters and the plot are mine.

Please Read This Before You Start:- This story will be posted in parts as it is written, if it is not posted here then it has not been written yet. I will write it as quickly as RL will allow but parts will be posted approximately every 1-3 weeks.

Synopsis:- When a series of seemingly unrelated crimes injure and traumatize those Steve is closest to, he is caught in the middle, having to deal with his concern and sense of responsibility, as his self esteem and credibility take a beating. It seems that his life is falling apart, but is this just the beginning? Will anyone realise that there is a more sinister hand than fate involved in what is happening to him before Steve's suffering really does destroy him?

Warnings:- For those of you who know my writing I don't need to say this, but don't expect anyone to make it through this story unscathed, particularly if they happen to be a police lieutenant or a young doctor.

**To Destroy a Man.**

Steve's hand moved up and down with the slight jerkiness that his fuzzy concentration skills would allow, the key hovering close to but not touching the lock. He really didn't want to scratch the door, so he focused every part of himself in guiding the small metallic object into its home. Eventually he succeeded in getting the end to enter the hole and with some sense of achievement pushed it all the way in, turning it with a satisfying click. It was at that point he realised his first mistake, his weight was leaning onto the door maintaining his precarious balance, as the lock released and it swung open he was pitched forward into the hallway of the beach house, stumbling as he went.

The second mistake had been to try to catch himself by grabbing for the nearest object, which, unfortunately, was the large decorative urn of dried flowers standing on a small purpose built stand; at his touch it had also begun to topple. Steve wasn't sure how he managed it in his uncoordinated state, but he stopped his own descent whilst simultaneously catching the vase with both hands and raising his foot to steady the stand, somehow preventing the, what would have been, catastrophic fall to the floor. None of this was achieved without losing the contents of half of the vase, scattering foliage across the hallway. Awkwardly he steadied the stand and deposited the vase on top of it, pulling two fingers to his lips he made an exaggerated 'shushing' noise at the offending inanimate object for the clatter it had made in it's almost tumble to the floor.

The gesture was meant to admonish the stand for nearly making enough noise to wake his father. The fact that making such a gesture to an object which could only move if pushed would make no sense to any but an inebriated mind, escaped the attention of Steve's inebriated mind, and he made a half hearted attempt at picking up the flowers, but quickly gave up as bending over made his head begin to spin.

Next he attempted to hang his jacket up on the hooks by the door but as he let go, thinking that the collar was firmly over the hook, he was surprised to see the jacket fall gracelessly to the floor. He picked it up and tried again but this time he was only successful in pulling another jacket down with it. With a dismissive wave of his arms he decided to give up, it was another task that could wait until morning.

Despite the fact that he had decided to leave the jackets until morning, he found himself still staring down at them a minute later. Realising that he needed to decide what he was going to do, he looked at the stairs which led down to his own apartment. The idea of heading down and collapsing bonelessly onto his bed for the next, however many hours he could get away with, was extremely tempting. On the other hand, the sirens' call of the refrigerator was making itself heard by his empty stomach, the alcohol induced temptation to snack strong enough to override his need to lie down. He turned and headed for the kitchen.

Steve's third mistake, in what was becoming too long a list, was to leave the lights off. He did not want the light to show under the door to his father's room and risk waking him up. Again, had he been thinking clearly he would have realised that he had already made enough noise to wake the dead, and he was just about to make more. Attempting to navigate across the darkened room, he caught his foot under the leg of a chair, tripping and pulling the chair over, he put his arms out to catch himself only to have his left hand impact painfully with the corner of Mark's desk. He pulled it back sharply as he landed heavily on his hip, letting out a startled yell followed by a soft curse.

He sat up and pulled his injured hand to his chest, cradling his wrist as he waited for the throbbing to subside a little. He waited only a short while before resuming his attempts to get to the kitchen. With as much care as his impaired state would allow, he pushed himself unsteadily to his feet and resumed his journey, but by now it seemed inevitable that he would not make it without further incident.

He was close to the door when a twinge of pain from his injured hip made him stumble forward again. He caught himself on what he thought was the cupboard under the bookshelves but only succeeded in dislodging two loose volumes that had been left out. They fell to the floor and Steve only just managed to prevent himself from following them. He stood for a moment regaining his breath before finally completing the last few steps to the kitchen. Still cradling his hand protectively to his chest, he decided that coffee was what he needed first.

The top of the coffee container, however, proved uncooperative, unable to get a grip with his knuckles throbbing as they were.

"Looks like you could use a hand with that."

The comment from behind startled Steve and he turned, the lid chose to give at that precise moment and flew off scattering the contents of the coffee container in an arc across the room. As he moved Steve failed to notice the door, which he had carelessly left open when he retrieved the coffee, his forehead made contact with the corner with an audible crack.

Mark winced in sympathy but knew enough to realise that it was the sort of impact that stung rather than caused real injury, even so he moved forward to get a closer look. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

"S'okay," Steve said, his speech slightly slurred, placing the now empty container on the worktop and bringing his good hand up to gingerly feel for damage, He drew in a sharp breath as his fingers made contact with the tender skin which was reddened and beginning to swell. "Sorry about the mess." He said somewhat sheepishly.

"Don't worry about it we'll clear it up in the morning."

Steve moved his head, forcing his father to make eye contact. "I don't just mean in here."

"I know," Mark replied, "didn't occur to you to turn the light on, on your way in huh?"

"I was trying not to wake you," Steve replied, letting his eyes drop to the floor.

Mark grinned, "and you might have succeeded if you hadn't brought that herd of elephants through the living room with you." He tilted his head to a slight angle as he examined the bump on Steve's forehead. "Sit down and I'll get you some ice for that," he began to move toward the refrigerator, "and for the hand too."

Steve automatically looked down at his scraped and bruised knuckles, if it had been anyone other than Mark he might have wondered how they'd noticed that he'd hurt his hand as well. He drew in a deep breath. "I'm sorry," he said again as he headed for the table, still slightly unsteady on his feet.

"Nothing to be sorry for," Mark stated as he looked for something to put the ice in, finally retrieving a bag from the drawer. "As long as you had a good night." He paused from his task to turn and look at his son. "You did have a good night?"

Steve smiled and nodded as memories of the evening returned. "You could say that."

Mark returned with the ice pack, putting it in Steve's uninjured right hand so that he could hold it against his head, before taking hold of his left to check the injury. "How good?" he asked.

"Would you believe karaoke with Michealson from division?"

Mark looked Steve in the eye, "Not New York, New York?"

Steve nodded, a twinkle in his eye now, his smile broadening, "And I swear this time he was the one who was flat and I was in key."

Mark's mind conjured up visions of Christmas parties past when Steve, reluctant to sing at all in public, would give in to the cajoling of his ex partner from his days of being a beat cop, and would take the microphone to sing the old standard. It was a standing joke that both men could actually sing the song in key, just never the same one, and their leg kicking antics, each trying to outdo the other, always went down a storm. Of course, Steve always needed a few beers to loosen up enough to take part, which was why it was a rare, and therefore special treat for all those who witnessed it.

Steve Sloan was not a heavy drinker, an occasional few beers watching a game, a glass of wine with dinner was his usual limit, even on those occasions when he really let his hair down he generally stopped before he got really drunk. This evening was one of those very rare occasions when he'd gone a little further than normal, not that he'd realised until he'd tried to make it into the house, he was in fact fairly sure that he hadn't had that many beers, but then again there was plenty of evidence to the contrary. He had to accept that he'd gone a little too far tonight and he was probably going to pay for it in the morning.

Not that he didn't deserve to let his hair down, his caseload had been brutal for months now, and he had worked two tough undercover assignments almost back to back, so tonight's opportunity to celebrate the successful completion of both cases, the trials ending within days of each other with successful convictions, had come as a welcome relief after the months of hard work,

Mark had been getting worried by the almost permanent lines of strain that had built up around Steve's eyes, and it had come as a relief to him that Steve finally had the opportunity to relax a little. As a result he was prepared to be more than a little indulgent with his son's current condition, knowing that it was a result of celebration and not one of the more worrying circumstances that sometimes seemed to turn people to drink.

"Ah yes," Mark said, examining the back of Steve's hand, "But were you singing in the same key as the backing track?"

Steve considered the question seriously for a moment. "Maybe not," he admitted, "but can I help it if they always play it in a different key to the one I sing it in?"

Mark smiled, watching for Steve's reaction as he bent his fingers. "And to think I can never get you to sing at the hospital Christmas concert."

Steve did not have the control to hide his grimace as his bruised knuckles protested at being asked to move. "That's because it would be unseemly for the son of the Chief of Internal Medicine to be seen drunk on stage in front of an audience that included children." Steve replied, "and let's face it that's the only way that I would ever volunteer to sing in public."

"But what about the concert in '93 and then again in. . ."

"Dad, I said 'volunteer,'" Steve stated, "If I remember '93 you used guilt to get me to do it and the following year if memory serves then I think blackmail would be a more appropriate phrase." Steve paused for a moment. "In fact you were in breach of California penal code number. . ."

"Steve," Mark interrupted, his reproachful tone belied by the twinkle in his eye. "I did not resort to blackmail, I merely reminded you of certain photographs I had in my possession. . ." He finished his examination of Steve's hand. "Well I don't think that you've broken anything but I'd use a bit of that ice on it to keep down the swelling."

Steve nodded. "It was definitely blackmail," he muttered, as Mark stood and moved over to the cupboard

"If you still want coffee it will have to be instant," Mark said, allowing another smile as he took the jar from the cupboard, taking care to close the door.

Steve nodded his assent. "We got anything to eat?" he asked.

Mark thought for a moment. "I think there might be some of that ham left, I could make you a sandwich," he offered heading for the refrigerator once more.

Steve was about to agree when the reality of the situation struck home, it was nearly two in the morning and he'd already woken his father and got him out of bed, it was completely unreasonable to expect him to stay up and make him something to eat. Even though Mark had made the offer he felt a surge of guilt at his own behaviour. "No, you get back to bed," he said, pushing himself to his feet. "I can make it."

Mark turned and regarded Steve's shaky stance. "It's ok," he said, realising the reason for Steve's refusal. "Now that I'm awake, I'm kinda peckish myself, so I think I'll join you." The latter part was a lie, but joining Steve would give him an excuse to spend a little time with his son, whom he'd seen far too little of recently, and then there was the added bonus that Steve would not have to use a knife which, in his current accident prone state, seemed a very positive benefit.

Steve nodded once more and sat down more than a little gratefully, the room was taking on unpleasant movement of its own whenever he stood up. He let out a sigh, he really didn't think that he had drunk that much.

Mark began retrieving what he would need for the sandwiches and assembling it on the table, on his second journey he stopped short, the bread and pickle jar still clutched in his hands. Turning his head slightly he listened, alert to something that he had just heard that did not seem right, but, not having paid sufficient attention, he could not be sure about. He was paying attention now, so he waited to see if it was just an overactive imagination giving substance to a perfectly natural sound, or if there was indeed something wrong.

It took Steve much longer than it normally would to notice his father's sudden shift in demeanor, by the time he did, Mark had deposited the items he held on the edge of the table and was moving towards the door. "Something wrong?" Steve asked, managing somehow to keep his voice reasonably low as his instincts kicked in.

Mark turned and met Steve's slightly concerned gaze. "Probably nothing," he said, keeping his tone light, "Stay here, I just need to check on something."

If Steve had been more alert, he would have noticed the small signs that betrayed Mark's apprehension, the tension in his shoulders, the slight frown that creased his brow, the way he drew himself up to his full height in a subconscious display of determination, and if he had noticed, he would not have let Mark investigate alone.

Instead Steve's dulled perception failed to register the warning signs, accepting the instruction without the curiosity that should have been sparked by it. Capable of concentrating on only the most basic aspects of his environment, he moved the ice down from his forehead to the back of his hand and waited. It wasn't until the clatter from the other room became very loud that he reacted, and by then it was too late.

The sound of falling furniture and breaking glass, accompanied by a muffled cry were enough to send a surge of adrenaline crashing through his system. He could literally feel the wash of chemicals as his head cleared. He pushed himself to his feet, knocking the chair to the floor as he made for the door, covering the distance from the table in three strides before, catching sight of what was happening in the other room, he froze

The tableau in front of him seemed surreal. His father stood across the room looking slightly dazed, one hand to his reddened cheek; it was clear that he'd been struck. Facing him stood a man dressed entirely in black, holding a gun in one hand and an ornate statue that normally lived in front of one of the bookshelves in the other, the man's face was obscured by a black hooded mask with cutouts for the eyes, nose and mouth.

Mark's own fear was held in check by his intelligence, he knew only too well the statistics on violent acts perpetrated by burglars caught in the act, had seen the results on too many occasions, and he knew that even though the man had already hit out at him, his best bet was still to try to remain as calm as possible. "Please," he patiently repeated what he had already said in the hope that his assailant would listen this time. "Take whatever you want, I won't try to stop you. There's no need. . ."

Despite the danger he was in, Mark had prayed fervently that Steve would not hear the commotion and come to investigate. He needed his son to remain safely in the kitchen, but that hope was dashed as Steve interrupted him. "I'd listen to him if I were you," Steve stated, attempting to draw the intruder's attention away from his father.

Steve had assessed the situation in a moment, his thoughts as clear as if he were stone cold sober. His badge and gun were both locked away downstairs in his apartment, there was no chance of him getting to them, and, even if he could, he had the sense to realise that, however clear his thinking seemed, the alcohol in his system would dull his reactions. His father was taking the right tack, attempting to talk the guy out of any violent reaction was their best hope, although the unwavering gun and the rapidly darkening skin on Mark's face, indicating a blow already struck, did not bode well.

Steve wasn't sure what sort of reaction he had expected to his comment, he had certainly intended to focus any further violence on himself rather than his father, but the muzzle flash and loud report still took him by surprise as the man turned and, without hesitation, fired his gun in a single action. Years of ingrained training took over and Steve automatically ducked for cover as Mark shouted "No!" making a grab for the gun. He wasn't quick enough however, it was almost as if the gunman was waiting for the move as with a smile he swung the heavy statue towards Mark's head.

Steve looked up just in time to see it make contact with the side of Mark's skull, barely aware of his own anguished cry, as he pushed himself to his feet.

The masked intruder watched dispassionately as Mark slumped to the floor, dropping the statue to land by his head, before turning and running for the open doors to the deck, through which he had entered.

On some level Steve knew that he should still be concerned by the man who had moments earlier fired at him, knew that he still carried a gun and was therefore dangerous. He knew that he should devote some of his attention to what he was doing and where he was going, but, from the moment he had seen Mark begin to fall, his vision had tunneled, his entire focus was now on his father. He ran forwards, dropping to his knees by his father's crumpled form, for a moment he was separated from reality by a wall that stole the air from his chest, preventing him from breathing, preventing him from moving. He stared at the rivulets of red, threading their way as sharp ribbons of contrast through white hair before dripping to the floor to form a rapidly growing pool. The effect was horrifyingly hypnotic, the wall pressed harder against his chest and he knew that he had to fight the effect, knew that his father needed him to act.

With a monumental effort he forced his eyes closed and took a deep breath, banishing the sight that threatened to overwhelm his senses, a part of his mind screaming that he had to do something; his father needed him. He swallowed convulsively and opened his eyes again, forcing his fingers to move forwards and feel for a pulse. His insides churned in a maelstrom of fear as he moved his fingers, diving into panic for a moment when he could not feel anything, before abating slightly as he slid them to the correct position, the pulse was there, too rapid and slightly erratic, but there. "Dad?" he questioned. No response. "Dad, can you hear me?" he tried again, nothing, no sign that Mark had heard him, no movement at all.

He rocked back on his heels, taking a moment to process what to do next. The phone, he needed to call 911, get help. Towels, he would need something to try to stop the bleeding. The door, he should open the door for the paramedics. His head darted about as the thoughts tumbled over each other, once again he found himself having to force a focus, he drew in another deep breath and pushed himself to a shaky stand, demonstrating a coordination that he would have been incapable of ten minutes earlier, he grabbed the phone from Mark's desk and punched in the numbers as he ran through to open the door, leaving it slightly ajar. The line connected and he identified himself as a police officer, trying to remain calm as he answered the operator's questions, but as he returned to the living room, his eyes were drawn once again to the expanding circle of blood on the floor. It pulled at his consciousness, making focus on his answers difficult, he barely remained coherent and was aware that he was still slightly slurring his words, he cursed himself for the unnecessary time that he had wasted as the operator finally let him know that help was on the way. Throwing the phone onto the couch, he headed for the kitchen, pulling the drawer that held the towels all the way out and dropping it to the floor, he grabbed what he needed and headed back to Mark's side.

He picked up the statue and moved it out of the way before attempting to get a closer look at the head wound, trying desperately to remember what he needed to check for and what he should and shouldn't do.

Steve had no idea how long he knelt cradling his father's head in his lap, whispering assurances that help would be there soon. Part of him would have asserted that time had no meaning but with every passing second, another bright red drop of blood escaped from the head wound, despite his best efforts to prevent it, another laboured breath was drawn or expelled through lungs that seemed to no longer want to serve their purpose, another endless interval passed, where Steve could only hold his father, knowing that he could be dieing but not possessing the skills to do anything about it. Steve's reality wasn't measured by the passage of time but rather by the ebbing of life, it seemed that his father was slipping away from him and all he could do was watch.

Steve recognized the uniforms, they were the pale blue that signified paramedics from the fire department, the insignia on the badge confirmed it. His mind snapped back to a brief but total clarity as he handed his father's care to those he knew could help him, answering the questions they had as clearly as he could. Stepping back, he hovered near enough to still feel connected but not so close that he would get in the way. White shirts followed as the ambulance crew arrived and joined in the frantic activity around Mark. Steve tried to listen, tried to interpret the conversation spoken in the alien language that his father and best friends used so easily, but his focus was fading again, his mind unable to sort the confusion of emotions that gripped him.

The dark blue shirts that signified the arrival of uniformed LAPD officers were the last to impinge on his consciousness, but he couldn't truly have said whether that was because they were the last to arrive, or whether it was because they weren't directly involved in his father's treatment and so he just didn't see them.

"Lieutenant Sloan," Officer Charles Peters repeated for the third time, finally resorting to stepping between Steve and where the EMTs were treating Mark, in an effort to get his attention. Steve slowly lifted his eyes as the view of his father was cut off. "Please, I need to ask you some questions about what happened here."

Steve nodded an acknowledgement. "I know but. . ." He paused, licking his lips to try to ease the dryness, but it didn't help, his whole mouth was dry, the acrid taste left behind by the repeated bursts of adrenaline making him want to spit, but removing the necessary saliva to do so. "My father. . ." he said gesturing behind where the officer stood.

"Look," Peters said, "I know this is a difficult time but the sooner that we find out who did this the sooner we can do something about it." He caught and held Steve's gaze.

Steve considered it and nodded again, "OK, but there's not much to tell." He dropped into professional witness mode. It was a tactic he often used when he had to recount situations that had, for some reason, been difficult or traumatic. It was a skill honed from years of court appearances and witness statements given routinely as part of his job. Emotional detachment was often necessary for self preservation, here it was the only way he could deliver any coherent facts. He described what he had seen and heard from the moment his father left the kitchen. ". . .and then I called 911, and waited for you to arrive." He finished his statement and drew in a breath, grateful that he had managed to get through it with only slight pauses each time he'd had to repress the attached emotions.

"I see," Peters said, making notes, as he spoke. "And you're sure he went out through the doors to the deck."

Steve nodded. "They were open, it must have been how he got in in the first place."

"And besides you and your father, does anyone else have a key to the door?"

"Only Dr Jesse Travis and Dr Amanda Bentley, they're both colleagues of my father's at Community General Hospital."

"Charlie!" the call attracted Peters' attention and he turned to see his partner summoning him.

"Just give me a moment," Peters said, stepping away.

Steve watched him only briefly, turning his attention back to the men who were working on Mark. They had brought the stretcher in and were preparing to transfer him. Steve stepped forward to help. "How is he?" he asked, once Mark was resting on the stretcher.

One of the ambulance attendants set about covering him and fastening the straps, whilst the other looked up to answer Steve's question. "We need to get him to the hospital," was his only reply.

If Steve had been looking for some reassurance that Mark would be alright, he didn't get it, in fact the vague answer only served to heighten his fears, the sense of imminent loss gripped him and he had to fight to hold back the tears that welled in his eyes. He would not give up hope. Not yet.

As he began to follow the stretcher to the waiting ambulance it took him a moment to realise that he was not alone.

"I just have a few more questions for you Lieutenant." Peters said. "There are a few things about your account that don't tie in."

"They'll have to wait," Steve stated, "You can catch me at the hospital."

"I'm afraid they won't wait," Peters said, grabbing Steve's arm and turning him to face him.

"Look," Steve replied, trying to be patient but aware that, now they had Mark stable enough to move, time was of the essence, the EMTs almost had the stretcher loaded into the ambulance. "I'm going in the ambulance with my father to the hospital, any questions you want to ask I'll answer from there, or I'll come in and make a full statement in the morning."

"I'm sorry Lieutenant but I can't let you do that."

Steve's temper was beginning to flare, his emotions in too much of a mess, his system still too inebriated to exercise proper control. "Do what?"

"I can't let you travel in the ambulance since you have clearly been drinking and I still have some questions. . ."

Steve almost snarled his response. "If you want to stop me from getting in that ambulance you'll have to arrest me, otherwise I'm going." Steve moved to climb into the back of the ambulance but was stopped by a firm hand on his chest.

"Steven Sloan I am arresting you on suspicion of breaching California Penal Code number 368. You have the right to remain silent. . . "

The rest of the Miranda was lost in a sea of emotion as Steve was forced to watch the ambulance doors close and the ambulance pull away, but it did not matter he knew the rest of the script better than he knew his own name.

". . .Do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?"

Steve acknowledged the final question with a barely audible, "yes," his mind still reeling from the unexpected turn of events. Not sure why the officers he now faced had arrested him until his fuzzy mind pulled up the text of penal code number 368. Gripped by a sudden nausea, he swallowed back the bile rising in his throat as he looked down at his bruised knuckles. 'Oh God!' they thought that he had. . . his own father! He looked up a mixture of abhorrence and shock marred his features. "You can't think. . . I. . .I . . didn't. . . ." but he couldn't manage to get anything else out, the emotions of the last half hour finally overwhelming him as shock set in. He did not even notice as his wrists were cuffed and he was escorted to the police car, his only coherent thought a silent prayer that Mark would be all right.

TO BE CONTINUED. . .

PS pertinent section of California Penal Code.368 can be found at:- http:www.leginfo.ca.gov/cgi-bin/displaycode?sectionpen&group00001-01000&file346-368


	2. Steve and Mark pt2

Chapter 2 Steve and Mark; part 2

Steve was in Hell.

His head ached in incessant waves, the pounding providing a syncopated rhythm for the stop, start spinning of the room. With his eyes open he could just about hold a focus for a few seconds, with them closed it was worse, as images spiralled in opposite directions across each side. His stomach was threatening more dry heaves as bile once again rose in his already raw throat, but his physical discomfort was nothing compared to his mental anguish.

He wasn't sure of the exact length of time since he'd been separated from Mark, he just knew that it was too long; too long to not know how he was, too long to not even be told if he was still alive.

Most of the journey to the station had passed in a mental oblivion as his mind had struggled to process events that it did not want to accept as reality. He barely acknowledged the booking process, remaining in a detached state as he was fingerprinted and photographed.

It wasn't until he was being examined by the doctor that the whole ugly situation had finally registered. It was the harsh impersonal treatment by the doctor that had finally broken through the haze. The man was rough, pushing Steve's head back with no regard for any discomfort he might cause, pressing too hard on injuries to test for a response. It was such a contrast with how Mark had gently probed both injuries earlier, that the returning memory forced Steve to study the man who now took his father's place.

There was no concern or compassion evident in any of the doctor's actions, his expression only held contempt. Here was a man who clearly believed in 'guilty until proven innocent' whatever the constitution might hold true.

In studying the man's expression Steve was forced to acknowledge the reason behind it, the reason he was being examined in a secure room by a strange doctor, the reason his father was not there. The returning images stole his breath away.

"Please," he asked, once he had the breath to speak, "Do you. . . . Did they tell you how my father is?"

The doctor paused in his examination. "So now you care?" His expression was cold as he locked gaze with Steve, holding it only for a moment before turning to his bag for some gauze to wrap around Steve's knuckles. "What's the matter, worried he might die and then you'll be facing a murder charge?"

The accusation hit like a slap across the face, and it took Steve a moment to compose himself. "I didn't. . ." he began the protest but never finished, the contemptuous look had returned to the doctor's features and Steve knew that he would be parroting the same line uttered by almost everyone that he'd ever arrested, an empty protestation of innocence that would not be believed. Part of him wanted to stand up and grab the guy and shake him until he had convinced him that he would not, could not even contemplate doing what they had accused him of, but he knew that it would be to no avail. Instead he looked down, unable to take the accusing look the doctor aimed in his direction, however unjust, if the charges against him had been true, Steve knew that he would deserve that look and more. He shook his head slightly. "I just want," he paused, the emotion was stronger than that, "I need to know how he is," he said quietly. He forced himself to look back up into the doctor's eyes. "Please, could you find out for me?"

The doctor was about to deliver another sarcastic reply but something about the sincerity of Steve's expression, the quiet passion in the plea, stopped him. He looked away closing up his medical bag. "I'm declaring you fit to be interviewed," he stated and turned to head for the door, pausing as he reached it. "I'll see what I can find out about your father," he said without turning and then he was gone.

--

Officer Charles Peters let out a heavy sigh, this was going to be a tough one. Domestic violence calls were always the worst, the victims often did not want their attackers prosecuted no matter how badly they were hurt, witness statements were hard to come by, and they frequently had to rely on physical evidence to get a conviction, which neither side thanked them for. This case, however, involved one of the worst kinds of domestic abuse perpetrated by one of their own, a cop, someone sworn to uphold justice, and Peters found that particularly difficult to stomach.

Not that he really wanted to believe that Steve Sloan had hit and nearly killed his own father but there were just too many inconsistencies between the statement that he had given and the physical evidence at the scene for him to ignore it, and experience had taught him that no matter what he wanted to believe the truth was often ugly.

His partner Vince O'Neill had gone to Community General in the hope that he would be able to get some kind of statement or at least a better report on, and possibly some photographs of, the injuries. If this did turn out to be an abuse case then, in the absence of a statement by the victim, the photographs were often the best evidence that the prosecution had. Peters had returned to the station to charge and help interview Steve. He had taken the time, while Steve was being checked over by the doctor to check Steve's record and had even managed to find someone in homicide to ask about Steve and his relationship with his father.

--

The detective looked around, he was in luck the homicide division offices were empty, the room in semi- darkness, illuminated only by desk lamps carelessly left on, tall shadows crept up the walls. He sat down at one of the desks and waited for the phone to ring.

"Yes, I work with Lt. Sloan." He had answered cautiously but now relaxed into the lie, keeping a careful eye out for anyone entering the room.

"Could you tell me a little bit about him?" Peters asked, knowing that he would not be able to use the information he found out but needing some background on the man he had arrested.

"He's a good detective, excellent clearance rate, of course. . ." he paused, deliberately not completing the sentence.

"Of course what?"

"Well," the word was drawn out, just the right amount of reluctance, "he does get some help."

"Help from whom?"

"His father, Dr Mark Sloan, he's a consultant for the police department."

"Hmm," Peters tried to make his next question sound casual, he figured that it would get him a more honest answer. "Does the Lieutenant get on well with his father?"

"They seem to have a good relationship, Steve," false familiarity, then a cover for the apparent slip, "Lt Sloan lives in an apartment at his father's beach house," just enough of the truth to make the next lie more convincing. The unspoken 'but' hung at the end of the sentence.

Peters picked up on it, "I sense there's a 'but' here."

Again just enough reluctance before the answer to make it believable, "I think the Lieutenant gets a little frustrated sometimes, you know his old man stealing the glory all the time, solving the cases that he's working on."

"Does this lead to friction between them?"

Pause, "Yes, I guess."

Now the crunch question, "Does it ever lead to violence?"

Bingo, the coup de grace answer, "Well," pause, "I've never actually seen them come to blows." Beautiful, the implication was clear without having to put anything into words, time to get curious. "Look what is all this about? Is the Lieutenant in some kind of trouble?"

"I'm not at liberty to say until I've spoken to your Captain," Peters replied, knowing that he had extracted all of the useful information that he was going to get. "I'm sure you understand. Thank you for your help."

"You're welcome," the detective said hanging up the phone, "Very welcome," he spoke to the receiver as he stood and with a smile left the room, mission accomplished.

-

More than half an hour had passed since the doctor had left and still no word. Steve had finally succumbed to the rolling nausea, not sure if the vomiting was brought on by the alcohol, a reaction to what he had seen happen to Mark, or the realisation that he was suspected of causing the injuries, probably a combination of the three, all he knew was that it went on long after there was anything to bring up and left him feeling shaky and weak. The officer who came to check on him almost called the doctor back but Steve assured him that he would be all right and so he was left alone in the interview room.

Alone to consider the possible consequences of what had happened, alone in an agony of waiting, where the lack of news could bring no comfort; he had seen far too many homicides caused by blunt trauma to the head not to fear the worst.

The spinning walls started to close in around him. He needed to be at the hospital not here, he should be there with his father, not sitting here waiting to be interviewed about something he couldn't possibly have even. . . How could they think him capable of. . . He should be at the hospital. The walls swam inwards now, anxiety turned to anger. He hit the table in frustration, jarring his bruised knuckles as the side of his fist made contact making the table jump.

"Does that make you feel better Lieutenant?"

Steve looked up, he had not heard the door open, or either of the two officers, who now stood opposite him enter. He looked down at where his fist now rested on the wooden surface and then back up again. He shook his head, taking a deep breath in an effort to get his spiralling emotions under control. The adrenaline that had accompanied the burst of anger helped to clear his head. "No," he replied, quietly, too quietly, he knew that he wouldn't be heard. He cleared his throat and deliberately injected more volume. "No, it didn't."

Officer Peters took a seat and formally introduced Detective Johnson who would be working the case. Steve noticed that they were doing everything to the letter and he couldn't blame them, his rank imbued him with a certain status, whatever crime he was suspected of committing, his case would be reviewed by a higher ranking officer, that meant a Captain, so they were taking no chances at getting anything wrong.

"Before we begin," Detective Johnson spoke. "Dr Sykes asked me to tell you that your father is alive, but he's still in a critical condition, they were running tests when he last spoke to the hospital."

Steve let out a long slow breath as a small amount of the fear that had been tearing him apart ebbed. Mark was still alive. He allowed that knowledge to wash over his senses, to ease a little of the tension and stress. Then he had to acknowledge the rest of the news, his condition was critical and Steve knew only too well what that could mean. An invisible hand gripped his stomach and squeezed tightly. It took him a moment to realise that Detective Johnson was speaking again.

Once again Steve was reminded of his rights and asked to state for the record that he had waived his right to have an attorney present. Then they began the questioning. They took him through the events of the evening step by step, starting with when he had left the bar to return to the beach house and ending with the arrival of the paramedics. They asked the questions over and then repeated them in a different order until finally Steve had had enough.

"Look, it doesn't matter how many times we go through this, my answers are not going to change because I'm telling the truth," Steve stated, the frustration evident in his tone.

The two officers exchanged glances, an unspoken agreement to change the direction of the questioning passed between them. "How would you describe your relationship with your father?" Johnson asked.

Steve thought for a moment, how would he put it into words, that unspoken trust, loyalty friendship, the rock he could always rely on, the joker who could always amuse him, the inveterate meddler who continually frustrated him, the wise man who gave him counsel, the fool who spread joy around him, the intellectual who could process a thousand facts and find you the one you needed, the amateur sleuth who thwarted the professionals, the doctor who saved lives, the man whom he loved. He was all these things and more. How did he put that into words?

He looked into the eyes of the man who had asked the question, knew that he needed to give an answer. "We're very close," it was an inadequate statement but the best that he could do.

"Do you ever get annoyed," there was a slight pause, "angry with him?" Peters asked, "Does he ever frustrate you?"

Steve wanted to answer no, knew where the line of questioning was taking him, but that would be a lie. His father was frequently exasperating, especially when he got caught up in investigating a case, often acting without concern for his own safety. Steve also found himself frustrated when one of his father's intuitive leaps left him playing catch-up, but he never got angry in the sense that he was being asked about now. So would a negative response be a lie? He tried for a neutral reply. "Everyone gets frustrated with the people they love at some point, but I would never do anything to hurt him." The last part of the statement was emphatic.

"I understand he's a consultant with the police department." Peters continued,

Steve nodded.

"I hear he solves most of your cases for you."

Steve met Peters' gaze, a flash of irrational anger at the implied slight. "Solving homicides is invariably teamwork, and if you're asking if my father is a part of that team then the answer would be yes, he helps out on some cases and has helped to solve many."

"But sometimes he does solve the case himself, without your help?"

"Yes."

"And he takes the credit for providing the solution?"

"Yes."

"And that doesn't bother you?"

Steve thought for a moment, "I never really consider it, as long as the murderer is off the streets does it matter how?" He paused, not sure where this line of questioning had come from or who these officers had been talking to, but knowing that he needed to stop it. "The only reason I ever get frustrated with my father is when he does things without considering his own safety, and that's because I worry about him getting himself hurt. That's hardly a motive for me to do what you are accusing me of. He has proved time and time again that he is an asset to the department and I frequently go to him for help because I know that he will help. There is nothing," he emphasised the word, "in our working relationship that would make me want to hit him."

The two officers exchanged another meaningful glance. "Do you drink often Lieutenant?" Johnson asked.

Steve sighed and shook his head.

--

Amanda sat down, then she stood up again, she paced up and down the corridor four times before dropping back onto the seat, but she did not stay down, around thirty seconds passed before she was pacing again. She was about ten paces from returning to the seat when the door to the exam room opened and Jesse came out. She rushed to him.

He gave her a tired smile, "I've just upgraded his condition from critical to serious," he stated. There was lots more detail that she needed but he wanted to give her the good news first. "He's got a way to go, but he's breathing on his own now, and I think he should be all right."

Amanda couldn't help herself she threw her arms around Jesse's neck and hugged him, holding back the tears that threatened, the moisture making her eyes shine. Jesse returned the hold, needing the moment of comfort as much as she did, the last couple of hours had been gruelling, eventually he pulled back from the embrace

"Do we know what happened?" Amanda asked, information had been scant since she'd arrived, it had taken her a while to get to the hospital after she got the phone call, finding a sitter at 3am wasn't the easiest of tasks, so all that she really knew was that Mark had been brought in with a head injury and that he was in a critical condition.

Jesse indicated that they should begin walking and they headed for the doctor's lounge. "All I know is that it happened at the Beach house and that Mark was struck on the side of the head with something heavy and sharp. He has a concussion but that doesn't look too serious at the moment, the main problem was the cut to the scalp, it took fifty stitches to close it up, the blood loss sent him into shock and he stopped breathing, which is why we had him on the ventilator for a while, but it looks like we got lucky, all we need now is for him to wake up."

Jesse moved to pour himself a much needed coffee. Amanda looked around, "Where's Steve? Is he with him?"

Jesse shook his head, "I don't know, I've had one of the nurses trying to track him down, but so far nothing, he's not answering his cell and there's no answer at the Beach House."

"So he doesn't even know yet?"

Jesse shook his head, "But perhaps it's for the best, at least now we can greet him with good news rather than 'wait and see'"

"I guess," Amanda pondered the situation for a moment, "Still if anything had happened. . ." She left the sentence trailing, knowing that Steve would have wanted to be there.

"Dr Travis," the excited nurse called from the doorway, "Dr. Travis," she repeated as she arrived at the table.

"You've located Lt Sloan?" Jesse asked, pre-empting what the young woman was going to tell him.

"Not exactly, I was just talking to the Ambulance crew who brought Dr. Sloan in; they just brought in another patient," she paused to take a deep breath to fuel the over excited speech. "They said that Lt Sloan was there."

"At the Beach House?" Amanda asked.

The young woman nodded.

"Then why didn't he. . . ." Jesse began to ask the obvious question.

The nurse anticipated the rest of it. "He couldn't come in with him, the police were there too and they arrested him."

Jesse's mouth opened and closed but no sound came out.

Amanda managed to voice the question. "They arrested Steve?"

The nurse nodded.

"What for?"

The nurse shook her head, "I'm afraid I don't know, they just heard him being read his rights before the doors closed and then they were on their way here."

Jesse stood, "There was a police officer waiting to speak to me," he stated, "I'm going to find out what's going on."

Amanda stood and followed.

--

Johnson closed the door on Steve and turned to his colleague. "Well what do you think?"

Peters shook his head, "His version does explain how the place got to be such a mess, although I have to admit my first impression of the place was that there had been some sort of fight," He looked at the door and then back at his colleague. "He has had time to come up with a plausible explanation." He shook his head again, "There's still too much that doesn't fit. "The doors to the deck were locked when we got there and there was no sign of forced entry. If the burglar came in that way he would have to have had a key, and if he ran off in a panic after hitting Dr. Sloan, why would he take the time to close and relock the door, it doesn't make sense, and, if he had a gun, why pick up the statue that Dr. Sloan was hit with, it wasn't worth stealing, why not just use the gun?" He turned and stared back at the door, "I don't want to, but I think he did it, maybe not deliberately, he'd been drinking, his father said or did something to make him mad and he hit him, I've seen it before."

Johnson let out a sigh, "I tend to agree, the forensics unit is still out at the house looking for the bullet that Sloan says was fired at him, so far they've found nothing and the only fingerprints that they've pulled off the weapon are Sloan's. It certainly looks like he invented this intruder to cover his own actions." He paused to think things through for a moment, then let out another sigh "If he's convicted this'll end his career."

Peters nodded silently.

--

Jesse would have laughed, the suggestion was so ludicrous, but the serious expression on the police officer's face stopped him, changed the reaction from humour to outrage. "You think Steve did this to his father?" he asked, unable to keep the incredulous tone from his voice.

"The evidence seems to suggest that yes."

Jesse was angry now, "I don't care what the evidence suggests, Steve Sloan is no more capable of hurting his father than he is of chopping his own arm off," he stated, moving forward without even realising it. "Steve and his father have the closest relationship between father and son that I've ever seen. There is nothing that Steve would not do for Mark, or vice versa." Despite their difference in size, Officer O'Neill had a good six inches in height and about 40 pounds on Jesse, the strength of the young doctor's personality allowed him to drive O'Neill back until he was touching the wall. "In fact if Steve were faced with the choice of cutting off his own arm or hurting his father then he would cut it off." Jesse was pointing, almost stabbing at O'Neill's chest to emphasize his speech. "Steve Sloan did not do this. So you had better start looking for the man who did."

It took a moment for Jesse to realise what the passionate defence of his friend had led him to, he consciously reigned in his emotions, O' Neill for his part seemed slightly stunned from the strength of feeling. Jesse stepped back, the energy draining from him.

Officer O' Neill tugged at his shirt and squared his shoulders. "Look I know that you know Lt Sloan and his father, but I can only go from what I saw. Lt Sloan had clearly been drinking heavily, his knuckles were bruised, Dr Sloan had marks on his face consistent with being struck before the blow with the statue, and the whole house was a mess as though people had been fighting."

Jesse shook his head. "He didn't do it," he stated much more calmly as he brought his emotions under control.

"What did Steve say happened?" Amanda asked, as Jesse dropped back a little further.

O'Neill turned to face her. "He claims there was a masked man who broke in, hit his father, shot at him and then ran away."

"Then why. . ." Amanda began to ask.

"Why don't we believe him?"

She nodded.

"The entrance Lt Sloan claims the intruder entered and left through was locked with no sign of forced entry." O'Neill paused for a moment before continuing. "I know you don't want to believe this but I have seen it before, people behave differently when they've been drinking and. . ." He stopped as Amanda began shaking her head, he looked back at Jesse, he knew when he was defeated. He wasn't going to get either of these people to believe that Steve attacking his father was even a possibility. He took out a card and held it out to Jesse. "I need you to contact me as soon as Dr. Sloan is well enough to make a statement." He cleared his throat. "There'll be a photographer over to take pictures of the injuries in the morning, it's standard procedure in this sort of case."

Reluctantly Jesse took the card and nodded.

There was an awkward pause, heavy emotions clogging the air. If O'Neill expected Jesse to say something else he was disappointed, he cleared his throat, thanked Jesse for his cooperation and left.

Jesse leaned back against the wall watching the officer retreat down the corridor before turning to face Amanda. "What a mess" he said barely audibly, allowing a whole stream of emotions to wash over him as he tried to get the nights' events into perspective. Amanda could only nod her agreement.

Jesse allowed the introspective for only a short time, knowing that he needed to be pragmatic, both of his friends needed him. He looked back up at Amanda. "I need to check on Mark again, then I'm going down to the station to see if I can help Steve."

Amanda nodded, she too was struggling to untangle her emotions. She was torn, should she stay with Mark or accompany Jesse to help Steve?

It was as if Jesse sensed her dilemma "I think you should stay here with Mark, he'll appreciate a familiar face when he comes round."

She managed a small smile of appreciation, "Let's get to it then."

--

Steve did his best to straighten himself up. The night in the cell had been one of the worst that he could ever remember spending. For the first hour he had worried constantly about his father, knowing that he was in a critical condition, that he could lose him at any moment ground at his nerves and frayed his emotions. When he had finally been given the news that he was out of danger, it brought little relief, it simply allowed other thoughts and fears that had been bubbling under to rise to the surface. He had desperately needed to sleep off the effects of the alcohol that still lingered in his system, but his eyes had remained stubbornly open, his mind active, his emotions swirling. He couldn't stop the images of the night's events repeating over and over in his head, his father's ashen features and the growing pool of blood forming a constant backdrop for his emotional turmoil. Fear, anxiety, anger, frustration, all vied for his attention, and with each passing hour another emotion began to emerge; guilt. He couldn't help thinking that if he hadn't been drunk, he would not have woken his father, would not have put him in danger. If he hadn't been drunk, he might have been able to stop what had happened.

The guilt grew stronger through the cold dark hours of early morning, the more he considered the events that had led him here, the stronger his belief became that his own self indulgence had got his father hurt, like a strangling vine it began to choke off more rational lines of thinking, leaving him with an all pervading sense of responsibility for what had happened. By the time morning came, he was finding it difficult to convince himself that he did not belong in the cell.

He knew that Jesse was around somewhere, although he hadn't been allowed to see him Jesse had managed to get news to him about Mark's condition. He had also arranged a lawyer and brought him clean clothes for his arraignment, the ones he was arrested in were covered in blood. He was therefore not surprised to see his friend waiting in the courtroom, but somehow he could not bring himself to make eye contact, instead he looked down as he moved to his seat, avoiding looking at anything.

Jesse was shocked by his friend's appearance, his features were pale and gaunt, and heavy black bags pressed under bloodshot eyes. His whole demeanour was one of defeat as he moved forward shoulders slumped, eyes downwards.

Steve did not take much notice of the proceedings, grateful that waiving the reading of charges was standard procedure at this sort of hearing, so he did not have to hear the accusation read aloud, at least not yet. Nonetheless he was all too well aware of why he was here, of what these people believed him capable of and as he sat his mind went momentarily numb. The formality of the courtroom suddenly made the whole thing more real and for the first time since his arrest he started considering the consequences.

It took a while to register that the arraignment was over, his lawyer was talking to him. "So you do understand what we just agreed to?"

Steve didn't really answer, he let out a sound that could have been a vague acknowledgement, but he did not need to say anything, his expression said it all.

"OK," the lawyer said ushering Steve out with him. "Come outside and I'll go through it with you."

He waited until they were outside the courtroom before turning to face Steve. "The judge has agreed to release you on your own recognisance, but he has insisted on a Stay Away order. That means you're going to have to find yourself somewhere else to live until this comes to trial. Is that going to be a problem?"

"No," Jesse stated, "He can stay with me."

Steve turned to look at his friend, he hadn't even realised that he'd joined him. He knew that his mind wasn't working at its best, emotion and exhaustion, not to mention a growing hangover, were keeping his thinking fuzzy. "Stay Away order?" he questioned, not that he didn't know what one was but he was having trouble connecting it to his own circumstances.

"Yes," the lawyer stated patiently, "I'm afraid that if you come within a hundred yards of your father, you'll be subject to immediate rearrest."

TO BE CONTINUED.......


	3. Steve and Mark pt 3

**Chapter 3 Steve and Mark part 3**

Amanda jerked her head up and blinked tired eyes open, processing first the fact that she had fallen asleep, second that her neck was stiff and sore from being held at an awkward angle and finally that it was movement from the bed that had woken her. At that point everything else was forgotten as she moved to Mark's side. "Hey," she said softly, "welcome back."

Mark's mind was empty, he struggled to form thoughts as he looked up at the concerned soft brown eyes that locked with and held his. A flash of recognition fuelled a croaked "Amanda," it was the most he was capable of, synapses of intelligence warring with those registering pain and discomfort, battling for a barely focused attention. The pounding headache won the initial foray, the light hurting his heavy eyes.

Amanda's relief that he recognised her was brief as his eyes clouded over again, the intelligence in them dimming, and for a moment she thought that this would be a repeat of Mark's earlier forays into consciousness. He would drift off back to sleep before his mind had time to even acknowledge the awakened state, let alone form memories in the jumbled synaptic pathways, but she saw the moment at which the intelligence won out. His eyes opened fully and focussed again.

It was curiosity that had pulled him back, too many unanswered questions to just drift back to sleep. Why was he in the hospital? What had happened? Why did his head hurt so much? How long had he been here? He began with the most obvious, licking his lips in an attempt to wet them before swallowing down on the unmistakable discomfort remaining from the intubation tube. "What happened?"

Aware that his recall was important in judging the prognosis for his injury Amanda answered with a question. "What's the last thing you remember?"

Mark thought about it. "I was. . ." he paused, making sure that this was the most recent recollection that he had. ". . . reading in bed. . ." He stared down at the covers, focussing his thoughts in case anything else came to mind. He looked back up at her. "I don't remember falling asleep." He looked around, frustrated by the lack of memory. "How did I get here?"

Amanda, still ignored his questions, explanations could wait until she had, in Jesse's absence, assessed Mark's condition. "Do you know what day it is?"

After several more mundane but necessary questions, and the obligatory checks on pupil and other reflex responses, Amanda moved to note her findings on his chart, relieved that there were no indications of more serious complications.

Mark endured the familiar checks with good grace, using the time to gather his fuzzy thoughts into order, he waited until Amanda had almost finished before repeating his question "So what happened?"

Amanda sighed, she raised her eyes again to meet his, her stomach tightening as she tried to gauge his reaction to what little she could tell him, knowing as she met his pain filled gaze that she needed to keep him as calm as possible. "Someone broke into the beach house and attacked you," she stated, keeping her reply deliberately vague. "I'm not sure of all the details, the police are investigating."

Mark didn't have the energy for too much curiosity, he tried to process her statement. "Burglar?" he asked.

Amanda nodded, "Probably," she said non-committally

If Mark had been more aware, he would have realised that Amanda was keeping something from him, but even the effort of the little talking he had done, exhausted him. "How long. . .?"

"You were brought in about seven hours ago."

Mark frowned, if he had been unconscious for that long then his injuries must be serious. "Concussion?" he asked, still economical with the exhausting task of forming words.

Amanda nodded. "Hmm. Mm," she agreed, "and a scalp wound that needed fifty stitches."

Mark gave a slight nod of acknowledgement. That would explain the throbbing headache and why he was on more than a saline drip, his eyes closed briefly before he forced them sluggishly open again, "Steve, Jesse?" he asked.

Despite its inevitability, Amanda's stomach knotted again at the question,. There was no choice in her response, Mark was in no condition to handle any stress, so no matter what he asked she could not tell him about Steve "They'll be back soon," she assured him, not sure what she would say if he asked her where they needed to come back from. She patted his arm in a gesture of reassurance. "You need to get some rest."

Again, if Mark had been more aware, he would have noticed the telltale signs that something was wrong, but he was struggling against pain and an almost overwhelming weariness, and keeping his thoughts even semi-coherent was a trial, so he accepted the reassurance at face value, content in the knowledge that he would probably see his son and his friend the next time he awoke. He gave a slight nod and surrendered to the desire to let his mind drift into the welcome oblivion of sleep.

Amanda watched his eyes close, relieved as his breathing evened out and some of the lines of pain that etched his face softened again as he relaxed. She looked up at the clock, it was nearly ten, to this point she had only allowed her concern about Mark's reaction to colour her thoughts about what had happened to her other friends, but now she was forced to acknowledge her own concerns. Surely Jesse should be back with Steve by now, surely it shouldn't take this long to sort out the misunderstanding that had caused them to arrest Steve. It had to be a misunderstanding, that was the only rational explanation. She repeated the thought in an attempt to quell her own growing uneasiness. They should have been back by now, she stared at the door as if that would cause her friends to appear but there was no movement. She took a step back and sank wearily into the chair.

-

Steve stared at the lawyer for a moment as the words registered and their implications slowly formed into coherent thought. Then the world fell away from him. It was an interesting sensation, sound went first, individual sources of noise registering and then disappearing, the dull hum of conversation, gone, the tapping of feet on the marbled floors, gone, the hum from the air conditioning, gone, the swish as the lift doors opened, gone. He stared at Jesse then back at his lawyer both were speaking, their lips moving, but no sound registered. Then the images began to fade, first the walls, their colours melting, then the focus was pulled, the faces shrinking rapidly as they appeared to fly away, disappearing into the distance until nothing remained. His thoughts consumed his consciousness leaving nowhere for his senses to register.

Each word came slowly, individually, to be curiously examined and then hung up as part of a complete sentence. They were going to stop him from seeing Mark. He couldn't go near him, couldn't talk to him, couldn't satisfy himself by the familiar comfort of sight or touch that he was okay. Instead the last image of bloodstained gaunt features, of a face partially obscured by an oxygen mask would be left to haunt him, as if it didn't possess his psyche enough already. He couldn't see him, wasn't allowed to, they wouldn't let him because they thought he was. . . they thought he would. . . He forced the words through this time, he couldn't deny them any longer. They thought he was the one who had hit him, nearly killed him. They thought that he was such a potential danger to his father's well being that he might do something else to harm him. His stomach lurched at the thought.

-

"The judge has allowed you an hour to collect your personal belongings under escort," the lawyer continued his explanation, unaware that he had lost his audience. "But you will need to check in with the LAPD first, they may want to preserve the crime scene, particularly since I understand there's still a chance that this could become," the lawyer paused for a moment not wishing to be untactful, but he decided there was no softer way to word his point, "a homicide investigation."

Jesse turned to look at Steve worried about how he would react to the comment, it was at that point that he realised that Steve was no longer with them, his gaze had dropped to a point on the opposite wall, his eyes slightly defocused. Jesse debated interrupting the lawyer to bring Steve back, but decided just to listen to the advice himself. Steve didn't seem to be in any state to deal with it. He turned his attention back to the lawyer who was looking at his watch.

"Well I've got another court appearance in about half an hour so I'm going to have to get going. I'll look over the rest of the police reports and get back to you about your defence." He addressed Steve directly again and finally seemed to notice his client's dazed state.

Jesse stuck out his hand. "Thank you for all you've done so far." His tactic worked and the lawyer returned the handshake without thinking, allowing his attention to be distracted by the young doctor. "You've got my home number and Steve's cell so you should be able to contact us when you need us."

The lawyer nodded, taking a glance back at Steve, he wasn't entirely sure about the truth of that statement, he certainly hadn't had much contact with his client thus far, but he contented himself with returning his attention to Jesse. "I'll be in touch then," he stated, breaking off the handshake and turning to rush off down the corridor.

Jesse watched him leave for a moment before turning back to Steve, if anything he was looking worse than when he had come into the courtroom, but Jesse couldn't be sure that that wasn't just because he was much closer now. He turned and stood directly facing his friend placing his hands on his shoulders. "Steve? Steve?" it took a couple of tries before Steve's eyes began to focus again.

Steve looked at Jesse, momentarily confused, he glanced around and then looked back at Jesse again. "Jess?"

"Come on let's get out of here," Jesse said. Steve gave a slight nod and a tight smile, following silently as Jesse led the way to his car.

-

"So where are we going?"

Jesse almost jumped when Steve spoke, finally breaking the cocoon of silence that had blanketed him since leaving the courthouse. It took him a moment to frame his answer. "I was going to take you back to my place, let you get some rest before arranging to pick up some of your things later." He turned to glance at his friend but only caught the back of Steve's head as he stared out of the window as he had been doing since the journey began.

There was a long pause and Jesse was ready to believe that the conversation was over when Steve spoke again, much quieter this time. "Go to the hospital."

Jesse wasn't sure that he'd heard properly "What? Steve, I didn't. . . ."

Steve finally turned to face his friend. "Take me to the hospital."

Jesse drew in a deep breath, "But Steve, you heard what the lawyer said. You can't. . . ."

"I won't come in. . . at least I won't. . ." He paused taking a breath, he had taken a while to try and sort his emotions, had thought he was in control before speaking, but any control that he had was tenuous at best. His gaze dropped to his hands. "I'll stay in the car, I know that I can't see him but. . . ." He broke off again, not sure how to word his request, how to make Jesse understand that he needed some measure of physical proximity to try to calm his fractured nerves and quell the fear of loss that was still all too close to the surface. He wasn't sure that he understood it himself, much less how to explain it. He looked back at his friend. "I need you to check on him for me, and I need to be there even if I can't go to him," another brief pause preceded the quiet, "please," that held just a touch of desperation.

Jesse felt Steve's gaze as it shifted back to him and he turned to briefly meet it, knowing in that moment that he had to follow his friend's request, that no argument would get Steve to follow any other course of action. Steve was rarely this open with his emotions and Jesse found the open vulnerability that was on display all the more alarming for that. He nodded, hitting his indicator to change lanes. "OK, the hospital first and then back to my place."

The thank you was quiet and were the last words Steve uttered for the rest of the journey, his gaze drifting back to the passing cityscape that once again barely registered on his senses.

-

Amanda stood instantly as Jesse entered Mark's room, open relief registering on her features as she recognised her friend. She smiled in greeting as she moved towards him, following his gaze down to Mark's still sleeping form before looking back up. "Jess, I'm so glad you're back, where've you been? What took so long?" She moved to embrace him, pulling back as she realised that he was alone. "Steve not with you?"

"It was a little more complicated than we thought." Jesse looked back down at Mark. "Has he woken up yet?"

"Yes, about an hour ago. No complications, he's going to be fine." She accompanied the news with another smile, allowing the relief to register once more.

Jesse made a half-hearted attempt to return it, was truly relieved himself, head injuries were always the most difficult to call, you couldn't be sure of anything until the patient woke up, but he was too preoccupied with Steve's predicament to fully appreciate the good news. He nodded and gestured for Amanda to follow him into the hallway, he did not want to risk Mark waking and overhearing his explanation. It was a prudent move as Amanda reacted loudly to the news of the court hearing and restraining order. She ran through the exclamations from open surprise through disbelief to incredulity before calming down a little.

"So where's Steve now?" She asked.

"He's waiting by the car, he insisted on coming here but he wouldn't come inside." Jesse paused, "The question is, what are we going to tell Mark? He's going to be asking for him when he comes round."

-

Steve stood leaning against Jesse's car and stared at the side of Community General. He'd spent the last five minutes wondering if he could see his father's window from where he stood. He closed his eyes, trying to match his mental picture of the insides of the building with the outside that he could see. It was a pointless exercise but it was eminently preferable to the other thoughts that he could allow to occupy his mind.

Knowing that Jesse was inside with his father had brought some of the calm that he had sought by coming here. He knew that Jesse and Amanda would both look out for Mark, would be there for him when he couldn't, but he also knew it wouldn't be enough, not enough for him or his father. Despite that, there was nothing that he could do about it and his helplessness frustrated him, the anger of injustice flared briefly to be replaced by the ever present guilt. This situation still seemed to be of his own creation, not in the way that others would perceive it, but his fault nonetheless. His failure to protect his father, his complicity in placing him in a position of danger, made him strangely accepting of the need for some form of punishment, and standing out here staring at the walls of the hospital was painful enough, knowing that this could end up as just as much, if not more, of a punishment for Mark made it even worse, something else to feel guilty about in a downward spiral of self recrimination which now consumed his moments of rational thought.

He opened his eyes again and scrubbed his hand across his face as they slowly readjusted to the bright morning sunlight. Suddenly the desire to leave was as strong as the desire to come had been. He needed to go somewhere, needed to be doing something other than moping around, burying himself with his own emotions. He looked at Jesse's car, there was no doubt in his mind that he would lend it to him if he asked, but he had no way to ask, besides Jesse would need it himself, making his decision, he turned and walked away.

-

Jesse knew that something was wrong the moment he had opened the door to the parking lot. He had managed to get a space fairly close to the building, his car clearly visible from the entrance, and he expected to see Steve either standing by the car where he had left him or sitting inside, but there was no sign of him.

Amanda noticed the instant shift in her friend's demeanour. They had spent the last half hour with Mark, whilst Jesse did his own checks on his friend's condition. He had woken briefly and they had spoken, Jesse brushed off his question about Steve's whereabouts by convincing him that he was working and would be by later, they had talked long enough for Jesse to satisfy himself that there would be no lasting damage from the head trauma. The only memory loss seemed to be of the events immediately preceding the attack and that was common enough, no other functions seemed to be impaired and Jesse was thankful once again for their luck. When Mark had drifted back to sleep, Amanda had insisted on coming down with him to check on Steve.

Jesse cursed softly and began to scan the lot, still heading for his vehicle to see if Steve had left a note.

Amanda followed scanning the surroundings herself as she correctly read Jesse's reactions, Steve was not where he'd said he would wait.

Jesse scanned the interior of the car and checked over the windshield but there was nothing. He let out a breath of frustration and looked directly at Amanda. "He asked me to bring him here, why would he leave? Where could he have gone?"

She shook her head and looked back at the hospital building. "You don't think he would have gone inside?"

Jesse thought about it for a moment, could the desire to see Mark have gotten the better of his common sense, would he risk being arrested? "No," he said firmly, not quite sure why his conviction was so strong, he just knew it was something that Steve wouldn't do. He knew that his friend wouldn't hesitate to break the law if he felt that his father was in some sort of danger, but he wouldn't just break it to fulfil his own desires, however powerful they might be. "No," he repeated, "he was quite clear about not even coming inside. I suggested he wait for me in the cafeteria but he said it would be better if he just waited here."

The two friends stood staring at each other deep in thought. "He may have set out for your place. That's where the two of you were going next isn't it?" Amanda asked.

Jesse nodded.

"He may have decided he needed the walk to clear his head," she continued, trying to remain rational despite a growing desire to panic "Why don't you head out in that direction and I'll check in the hospital, just in case? He can't go home," her voice caught slightly at the statement, but she recovered quickly, "and I can't think of anywhere else that he would go."

Jesse nodded again, "OK, I'll call if I find him." He opened up the door to his car as Amanda stepped back. "Amanda," he said causing her to turn back to look at him. "You didn't see him earlier, you know how hard he's been working these last few weeks, he was on the point of exhaustion before last night and now. . .well," the pause was longer as his eyes swept down to the ground and back up again. "I'm really worried about him."

"Me too," Amanda said, she reached out and squeezed Jesse's hand, "me too."

-

Jesse pushed open the door to Bob's rattling the bell so that the waitress looked up. She smiled as she recognised one of her bosses, relief registering clearly as she moved over to him. "He's in the back," she stated without preamble, since she had been the one who made the call that precipitated Jesse's visit. "We had to persuade him to go in there, he was frightening the customers." She kept her voice low. "He wouldn't tell us what was wrong and he looks terrible, and then when he hurt himself he refused to let anyone near. I didn't know what else to do so I called you, I'm sorry if. . ."

"It's OK Kate, you did right, thanks for calling, I'll deal with it." Jesse tried his best reassuring smile but his own emotional state did not allow him to be very convincing. He had spent the last two hours looking for Steve and the worry of not knowing where he was, on top of his already powerful concerns for the wellbeing of his friends, was taking its toll. He moved past the young waitress and headed for the kitchens. He pushed the swing door and looked around expectantly.

"He went into the office," the cook said nodding in the direction of the door.

"Thanks Marco," Jesse stated before moving on.

Steve sat at the desk with his back to the door, he had the books open and a pen gripped in his cloth wrapped hand. Jesse watched only for a moment but that was enough to tell that the hand was shaking too much to write.

"I thought if I came here I could do something useful," Steve stated quietly. There was a long pause, Jesse just waited giving Steve the time he needed. Steve stared at his hand. "I got a call on the way here, I've been suspended pending the outcome of the investigation. I need to surrender my badge and gun when I pick up my things from the Beachhouse." The pause this time was barely a beat, as if he needed to change the subject. "How's my dad doing?"

"Good," Jesse answered, "He's been awake and talking, he doesn't remember what happened but apart from that he seemed fine."

Steve continued to stare at the desk in front of him, not sure why there were tears welling in his eyes but determined not to let them fall. "You didn't tell him. . . . about me?"

"No," Jesse's reply was soft, "We'll wait 'til he's stronger." He searched for something more positive to say. "We'll probably have this sorted out by then."

Steve nodded. "Probably."

There was another long pause, Steve finally looked at his friend. "I must look a sight, there was a kid out there who burst into tears when I spoke to her." His tone was strangely flat, "So Kate persuaded me to work in the kitchens," he glanced down at the crude bandage on his hand. "Cut myself, Marco thought I'd be safer doing the books, but I can't seem to control the damn pen enough to write." Steve stared at his shaking hand again. "Useless," he muttered, then threw the pen down. It hit the paper with a loud slap, Steve's hand shook more.

Jesse stepped forward and took hold of Steve's hand stilling it, he turned it over with calm professionalism, and slowly began to unravel the cloth around it. "Let's take a look at how much damage you've done," he said, keeping his tone conversational.

Steve winced as the blood that was sticking the cloth to his skin was pulled agitating the wound.

"Not too bad, but you're gonna need a couple of stitches," Jesse stated, deliberately forcing all of the emotion back, at that moment Steve needed his strength, or at least a show of it. "I'll get my bag from the car."

"No," Steve said quietly, replacing the cloth round his hand as he spoke, "It can wait 'til we get back to your place, I've caused you enough trouble."

-

Jesse pulled the cover up and tucked it around Steve's neck. Standing up straight he rubbed his eyes and yawned, knowing that he should take this time to get some rest himself. He felt slightly guilty for tricking his friend into taking the sedative in his drink, but knew it was the only way to ensure that he got the rest he needed. He was sure that Steve's emotional state was being exacerbated by his exhaustion, and if he admitted it, so was his own, he hadn't slept himself in almost 40 hours. He also knew that the next few days were going to be emotionally draining as the consequences of the attack continued to play out, and Steve would need all of his strength to deal with them.

He moved over to the phone, he had one last obligation before he could get some rest himself. "Hi, Amanda. . . yes he's sleeping peacefully for the moment. . . Yes I'm going to get some rest myself now and you should too, he's going to need us when he wakes up. They both are."


	4. Steve and Mark pt 4

Author's note- OK a much more timely update- I think my muse is back-yay! Hope you agree, let me know- J

**Part 4- Steve and Mark 4**

Steve pushed himself groggily to a sitting position and swept his hair back from his face. His head slumped against the back of the sofa, he didn't feel that he had the energy to hold it up without support, blinking to clear his fuzzy vision he looked around recognising Jesse's apartment as his memories slid into place. He recognised the fuzzy sensation that lingered from a drug induced sleep, knew that was probably why his limbs felt so heavy. He glanced around again, trying to figure out how long he'd been sleeping. It had been early afternoon when Jesse had brought him here, and yet the sun shone brightly through the drapes over the doors to the balcony. Something about that didn't seem right, he'd been exhausted before he got here, and Jesse had clearly given him something to 'help' him sleep, he'd have to talk to him about that, not that he didn't understand the reasoning behind his friend's actions, he just. . . He interrupted his own thoughts managing to push himself forward, his back losing contact with the seat. The light outside bothering him, he knew that he must have slept for a reasonable length of time, so the only way it could be this light was if. . . he looked around for the clock to confirm his suspicions – 9. . .9 in the morning, he had slept clean through from the previous afternoon! The thought alarmed him slightly, although he was fairly sure that there was no rational reason why it should, he had needed the sleep, and it wasn't as if there was anywhere he needed to be.

A stab of bitterness accompanied that thought and he had to swallow it down. There were too many negative emotions swirling just under the surface for him to follow that path, and he needed to keep them in check if he was going to function That much had been clear the previous day, and now that he had managed to get some rest, albeit aided, that didn't seem like such an impossible task. He could at least think rationally, and he knew that there were things he could do, things he needed to do.

He absently rubbed at the back of his hand before awareness of the action dawned, he looked down, recognising the injection site for what it was. He had obviously had more than a little help in his extended slumber. He rubbed his hand again and scanned the room, where was Jesse?

As if on cue the door rattled slightly and Jesse pushed it open, removing his keys as he went. He caught sight of Steve watching him and smiled. "Hey you're awake, I just went and got us some fresh croissants." He held up the bag to indicate his purchase. "I put coffee on before I went out. You want some?"

Steve watched as he moved into the kitchen area, it could have been any normal morning, except they were more likely to be having breakfast together at the Beach House or at Bob's than at Jesse's apartment, but the easy smile, the movement in preparation were all comfortably familiar. Despite that, Steve was painfully aware that circumstances were far from normal, Jesse, however, seemed determined to pretend that they were and Steve decided not to disappoint him. His friend had really come through for him so far, and if he could save him some worry by making things appear as normal as possible then he would.

"Sure," he said, doing his best to return the smile. He pushed himself forward and looked down at his rumpled clothing. He tugged on his shirt with a little distaste "But I think I'll get myself cleaned up first if that's OK."

Jesse nodded, "Yeah, there are some clean towels in the bathroom and I pulled out a shirt that I think will fit you, it's on my bed." He weighed up Steve's dishevelled appearance and looked slightly apologetic. "I'm afraid you'll have to stick with the pants you're wearing unless you want shorts"

Steve smiled at the comment. "No, that's OK, thanks, I'll make these do until I can pick up some more."

Jesse watched carefully as Steve pushed himself to his feet and moved towards the bathroom. When Steve looked over, he pretended to be busy, emptying the croissants from the bag, he knew that he wasn't fooling Steve, but he kept up the pretence of normal activity anyway, what else was there to do?

When the bathroom door closed, Jesse dropped the items he had been holding and rested his hands on the counter, allowing his features to drop from the false neutral to the concern he really wanted to show. Steve seemed better, calmer, more aware, but only time would tell how he was really coping. Jesse allowed the heavy sigh, took another deep breath for good measure and carried on setting the table for breakfast.

The meal was a study in avoidance, Jesse continued to watch Steve, assessing his physical and mental state, and Steve continued to pretend that he didn't notice. The conversation made by sticking to the ordinary, the mundane, Steve had been so busy they hadn't seen each other in a while, and so there was plenty of hospital and station gossip to discuss, neither of them mentioned the events of the last thirty six hours until the meal was over.

Steve stood, picking up the dishes to take to the sink. "When I've done these I'm going to head to the Beach House, pick up some things. I know you said I can stay here but I can book into a motel or. . ."

Jesse joined him at the sink. "Steve," he interrupted, perhaps a little more harshly than he wanted. He was getting tired of dancing around the issues but didn't know how to express his feelings, he knew that neither of them did, which was, he guessed, part of the reason for the avoidance in the first place.

Steve turned to look at him, the eye contact conveying what neither man could express in words.

"You're staying here," Jesse stated simply, "until this is sorted out."

Steve held Jesse's gaze for a beat then nodded gratefully. He turned his attention back to the dishes, the emotional vulnerability sinking back behind the familiarity of the task. They worked in silence for a while, Steve washed, Jesse dried.

"You going to the hospital?" Steve asked.

"I'm not on 'til 12, I can drive you to your place first." Jesse offered.

"No, I'll take a cab, like I said I've got some things I want to do, and," he paused to look at his friend again, "I'd appreciate it if you went in early, looked in on my dad, made sure he was all right for me." The unspoken 'because I can't,' hung between them for a moment.

Jesse nodded. "I can do that." He held Steve's gaze briefly before looking away. "You sure you'll be OK?" He said, trying and failing to make the enquiry sound casual as he picked up a cup and turned to put it in the cupboard.

Steve would have sighed, but he knew from the way Jesse was reacting that he must have given his friend quite a scare, the concern was evident. "I'll be fine," he said reassuringly, "I was just a little tired yesterday and now that I've had plenty of rest, thanks to somebody giving me a little help." He rubbed the back of his hand again to let Jesse know that he hadn't gotten away with anything. "I'll be fine," he repeated.

Jesse nodded again. He wasn't entirely convinced, but then Steve hadn't exhibited any of the signs of stress that he'd shown the previous day, so he had no reason not to take him at his word. "I'll get ready for work then," he stated, heading for the shower. By the time he emerged ten minutes later Steve had already left.

-

Mark was feeling a lot better, his headache had dulled to a minor throbbing which didn't hurt at all as long as he kept his head still, and there was a double benefit in limiting his motion, in that any movement tended to pull on the still sore scalp wound, causing a different kind of pain as it tugged on the stitches.

He had been awake intermittently since the nurses had woken him at six, and it was getting on towards 11 now. He was beginning to get bored from the forced inactivity. He had spent some time trying to remember what had happened to him, but there was still a complete blank between reading in bed and waking in the hospital. When his continued attempts had proved fruitless, he had switched to idly wondering if he would have any visitors any time soon. It occurred to him that he hadn't seen Steve yet but he wasn't unduly alarmed since he had spent a large proportion of the previous day and evening asleep, and he knew that if Steve had been there when he was sleeping then he wouldn't have awakened him. He could just imagine his son's frustration, sitting next to the bed waiting for him to wake up, and he had slept obliviously through the entire visit. He allowed a small smile at the thought.

Still, he hoped that Steve would be able to get off work at some point so that he could drop in on him. He didn't really want to wait until evening visiting hours to see him. At least Jesse would be in soon, that might break up some of the monotony.

When the door did open, he was surprised that he didn't recognise either of his visitors, from the way they were dressed they certainly weren't hospital staff.

"Dr. Sloan?" the man asked respectfully.

"Yes that's me."

The man moved into the room opening out his wallet. "I'm Detective Johnson, this is my colleague Jennifer Adams, I wondered if we might have a word."

Mark shifted against the raised head of the bed, straightening himself a little. "About the burglary?" Mark asked, not missing the significant looks that the two exchanged. He was a little confused by the reaction. "About the man who attacked me?" he tried.

Detective Johnson pulled up an extra seat next to the one that was already at Mark's bedside and they both sat. "What do you remember?" he asked.

Mark sighed. "Nothing I'm afraid, the events leading up to the attack are a complete blank."

"Then how do you know it was a burglary, that a man attacked you?"

"Amanda. . . Dr. Amanda Bentley, she's a colleague of mine and a friend, gave me some brief details, yesterday. She told me I was attacked by a burglar and that you were investigating, but I'd really like to know more about it, have you found anything else out?"

The pair exchanged significant looks again. "Dr. Bentley told you that we think a burglar attacked you?"

Marks' eyes narrowed at the question, he was becoming increasingly disquieted by the attitude of the detective and of the young woman, whom he'd introduced as a colleague, but he hadn't given her a rank or title of any sort. "Yes," he answered guardedly.

"And you really don't remember what happened?"

"No," he paused for a moment, "Retrograde amnesia is quite common with the sort of head trauma I've suffered."

"And you would know that of course, Dr Sloan." There was a little too much emphasis on the word doctor.

The young woman leaned forward on the chair. "Look it's OK, there's no need to lie." She placed her hand on the back of his in a gesture that was obviously meant to be reassuring but only came across as patronising. "If you really do remember but you're too afraid to tell us the truth, we can protect you. This sort of thing is more common than you think. . ." At Mark's confused stare she trailed off.

Mark's disquiet had long grown past unease and was bordering on fear, something was very wrong here. He pulled his hand back from under hers, the gesture that was clearly meant to be of comfort somehow adding to his foreboding. "Look what is all this about? I've told you I don't remember anything and I don't." He looked between the two, his confusion growing. "What reason would I have to lie?"

Detective Johnson drew in a breath. "We don't believe a burglar attacked you. In fact, we don't believe that there ever was a burglar in your home." He met and held Mark's gaze, watching for a reaction as he made his next statement. "We've arrested your son Lt Steve Sloan for the attack, he seemed to have been drinking heavily and we believe you got into some sort of argument with him. There was evidence that he had been in a fight and there was no evidence of anyone else having entered the house. It would really help our case if you could corroborate our findings. . ." It was the detectives turn to trail off as he watched Mark's shocked expression, the colour draining from his face.

Mark's mind was reeling, at first he couldn't get past the idea that Steve had been arrested, couldn't comprehend why, he knew that Detective Johnson was still speaking, but it was like his hearing was on a time delay, the thoughts processing at half speed as his body reacted to an all encompassing sense of dread that dropped on him like a bucket of ice water. They had arrested Steve for attacking him? They thought Steve did this? A whole skew of emotions accompanied the thought.

He looked between his visitors again, only vaguely aware of his increased breath rate and the accompanying increase in the level of pain in his head. He opened his mouth to speak, to protest his son's innocence, to point out the ludicrousness of the assumption, but no words came out. He tried again but the sheer strength of the emotions brought about a frustrating lack of verbal coordination, his speech centres too overloaded to make any sense of the numerous responses that he wanted to simultaneously make.

The patronising young woman was speaking again, misinterpreting Mark's reaction. "It's all right Dr. Sloan, we appreciate that it is difficult to admit when this sort of thing is happening in your own family, but you don't have to put up with it any more. We're here to help you. We can protect you."

It was the second time she had used that phrasing, 'this sort of thing' and the blandness of the phrase linked to such a serious accusation was the trigger, suddenly the myriad of emotion focussed into one, anger. The young woman, whom he now realised must be from adult protective services, becoming the focus of that anger. He did not need protecting from his own son. 'This sort of thing' may happen elsewhere but it hadn't happened to him, and these people were going to know it.

"This Sort of Thing," Mark blustered, "This. . . sort. . .of . . .thing," on the repeat each word was enunciated separately, with venom. "You are talking about my own son attacking me, and you can't even make the accusation directly. You hide behind bland phrasing and avoidance of the issues. For what? To protect me? You think my own son attacked me, and you want to protect me from the words?" Although Mark was asking questions, it was clear they were all rhetorical, not that there would have been time for an answer in amongst the verbal torrent. He took a deep breath, looking between the two and taking some satisfaction from the fact that they now both looked as shocked as he had been moments earlier. The breath helped to calm him, allowed his tone to even out, from an anger fuelled rant, to something much calmer. "My son did not attack me," he stated with a barely contained venom that would have shocked anyone that knew him. "And if you knew anything about us, about our relationship, you would know that." He met and held the young woman's gaze.

"Dr Sloan. . ." she tried to interrupt, clearly flustered by his response.

He ignored her. "But you have clearly not taken the time to find out. You mistake white hair for senility, injury induced weakness for frailty. You come here accusing my son of. . ." he finally broke off as some of the other emotions broke through.

"Dr. Sloan," Detective Johnson took the opportunity to speak. "I know this may be difficult for you to accept but you've already admitted that you don't remember anything, how do you know. . .?"

Mark's eyes now locked with the detective, the intensity of his gaze enough to interrupt the question before it was completed. There was silence for a moment. "I know," he stated with total conviction.

"But the evidence. . ." Detective Johnson tried again.

That was all that was needed to ignite the anger again. "I don't. . ." This time Mark broke off because of the intense pain that lanced down the side of his head, he took a sharp breath as his hand moved automatically to the side of his face.

It was at that moment Jesse walked in. Taking in the scene at a glance, his immediate concern was for Mark, and the deep lines of pain and stress etched on his features. "What the. . .?" He uttered the half formed question as he rushed to his friend's side. "Get out," he addressed the two strangers who had clearly been upsetting Mark.

"I'm Detective Johnson and this is. . ."

"I don't care who you are, you are causing my patient distress, and as his doctor I'm telling you to leave this room, so get out." Jesse's tone held authority. as did the gaze he levelled at them. "Get out now!" the repeat was almost a shout.

With a slight nod the detective turned and ushered his still shocked colleague from the room.

"Mark?" Jesse said, gently pushing Mark's tense form back on to the pillows, studying his friend carefully.

Mark still held one hand to the side of his face, his eyes were squeezed shut as he concentrated on attempting to steady his breathing, but despite the renewed pain, there were answers he needed. As his anger dissipated, concern replaced it, adrenaline fuelling a heightened response. He opened his eyes. "Jesse they said they arrested Steve, that they think he attacked me. Why would they think that? I have to. . ."

"Mark," Jesse said firmly. "I need you to calm down. Steve's all right."

"But they arrested him," Mark said, the distress building as he put the information that he knew together. "That explains why I haven't seen him. I have to go to him." He began to push himself forward off the bed.

"Mark," Jesse said sharply, getting his attention. "Steve's fine, I just finished having breakfast with him. Now I need you to calm down."

Mark looked into Jesse's eyes searching them for sincerity, truth, "He's OK?" He finally asked as he allowed his mind to process the statement.

Jesse nodded, "He's fine."

Mark dropped back onto the pillows, giving in to the weakness that he had been fighting. As he relaxed, his breathing began to even out, but the pain did not seem to want to lessen. Still he couldn't let that be a consideration, despite Jesse's assurances, his concern for Steve and for what had happened was paramount.

Jesse frowned as he checked Mark's vitals, the stress was the last thing his system needed. He felt guilty for the way Mark had found out about Steve's situation, part of him regretting not telling Mark the truth himself the previous day, at least he could have handled it more sensitively. At least he, like Mark, knew that Steve was innocent.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Mark's voice was quiet now, there was a slight tremor in the question.

"Because you're in no fit state to be reacting like this," he said, garnering a small smile from his friend. "I'm sorry, I didn't expect. . . I left instructions for no visitors apart from Amanda and myself, I guess they slipped under the radar. I was waiting for your strength to improve, before explaining things."

Mark nodded. "Well, now that I do know, I think you'd better tell me everything."

Jesse studied his friend for a moment, he was visibly calming by the minute, with a sigh he dropped into one of the visitors chairs and began his explanation.

-

Steve closed the file and let out a long slow breath. He had called in a lot of favours to get a look at the document. After all, it was an open case and he was the subject. Getting to look at the evidence against him could be a big advantage if he were guilty, and, if he were guilty, jeopardising the case by letting him see the file like this, could end someone's career. Fortunately, there were still people around who believed he was innocent, although that number would probably dwindle if they too read the file. Steve had to admit that, if he didn't know the truth, then he would probably arrest himself based on the evidence.

The crime scene photographs showed the results of his drunken stumble through the house, but the coats and scattered flowers in the hallway, the fallen books and overturned chair in the living room and the arc of coffee that spread over the kitchen, all looked more like the result of a fight or violent argument. Then there was the bruising on his knuckles. He looked at the photograph again, would he believe that he had hit it on a desk, if some suspect told him that? He doubted it. It looked like the bruising you gained from hitting somebody; hard. He winced at the memory of the reddening mark on his father's cheek.

As for the credibility of his own version of events, firstly they had found no bullet to corroborate the fact that the intruder had fired on him, and the check had been thorough. They had run him through his story often enough for him to know that they had the angles right, and yet they had found nothing. Captain Newman had even sent the CSU back out to double check, and they had still come up empty.

Secondly, the locked doors to the deck were a big mystery to Steve, and a damning piece of evidence against him. He knew that he had seen them open, knew that that was the way the intruder had probably entered, and was definitely the route through which he had escaped, but they were found locked with no signs of forced entry. There didn't seem to be a logical way to explain the discrepancy.

Finally, there were the follow up interviews of their neighbours on the beach. No one else had been broken into that evening. In fact, if Steve's story was to be believed then the intruder bypassed at least a dozen houses in both directions whose occupants were sleeping, and chose the only house with lights on to enter.

Steve rested his elbow on the table and used it to support his head as he massaged his forehead. He wasn't sure what he had hoped to find, maybe something to support his version of events, any place to start looking in an attempt to find who had done this, but there was nothing. Not only did he not even have a place to begin, his only hope of not losing his career, and possibly his liberty. seemed to rest on his father remembering what happened, and what would that do to him if he couldn't?

TO BE CONTINUED. . . .


	5. Steve and Mark pt 5

**Steve and Mark : Part 5**

Mickey Flynn tapped his foot nervously on the ground and swallowed hard. Somehow he always looked a little seedy, nothing too overt, just slightly greasy, slightly grubby, slightly nervous; on the wrong side of the line to be considered respectable. He didn't quite fit in, but you would be hard pressed to say what it was about him specifically that gave it away. There was definitely something, something that let you know it wasn't just poor hygiene that left his hair greasy, or the fact that he didn't do his laundry with any frequency that left his clothes with an air of grime. It was as if his slightly dubious character was somehow projected onto his appearance.

If you met him in the street you would probably avoid him, in fact if you met him anywhere you would probably avoid him, unless your own questionable character matched his, but it was these qualities that made him perfect as an informant. If respectability avoided him, then duplicity seemed attracted to him in equal measure. He was somehow safe to confide in, could be trusted to keep your secret, however illicit, because he was like you, he would understand you. Those who did confide in him rarely understood the irony of that observation, even after their arrest. He was indeed just like them and as such could never be trusted.

Steve narrowed his gaze, his tone taking on a hard edge as he repeated the question. "So what are they saying about me on the street?"

The first time he had asked with a curious tone responding to a slip Mickey had made. Now Mickey's reluctance made him really want to know. He watched as Mickey's already nervous reaction, the constant agitated motion of his tapping foot, grew in intensity.

"Well," Mickey swallowed again. "They're uh. ." he looked up at Steve, catching his intense gaze for only a fraction of a second before looking down again, seemingly fascinated by a point on the table. "They're saying as how you beat on your old man." His nervousness showed in broken speech, and eyes that not only could not meet his, but were in constant motion, "put. . . put him in the hospital."

Steve felt like he'd been stung, the paranoia that had settled just below the surface, the feeling that everybody knew your problem and was talking about you, was not paranoia, it was real. Not only was he being judged by his colleagues, those he respected, but maybe worse, he was being judged by those he despised. If those who knew him would be prepared to believe in his innocence, then those who didn't would willingly accept his guilt, and amongst the criminal fraternity his reputation would be rapidly and possibly irrevocably destroyed. Even if he did prove his innocence he might never get that back. For a man whose reputation and integrity were everything to him, that was a bitter pill to swallow.

He was not given chance to dwell on this latest realisation as Mickey continued. The next sentence tagged on so quickly following the first, it was almost like a plea. "but I didn't believe it Steve, not a word of it." He looked up again, begging to be believed. "I know you didn't do it, I mean you wouldn't"

"Thanks for your vote of confidence Mickey." Steve held up his hand in a placating gesture to stem the verbal flow. "but I don't need your support, I need your help. I need you to help me find the man who did this. It's the only way I can prove I didn't." Steve's eyes narrowed, his voice taking on a harder edge, proving his innocence was one thing, but there was also a more important reason for tracking down the assailant. "And he should pay for what he did to my father."

Steve watched Mickey's expression change. The kid couldn't hide anything, Steve's request taking him completely off guard, despite his attestation to Steve's innocence only moments earlier. Steve might as well have asked him to find the man in the moon, or any other fictional character, he clearly had never considered the existence of an assailant as a possibility, and that meant that whatever he said, he too believed in Steve's guilt. "You want me to help you find the man who broke into your house and assaulted your father?" he asked. He might as well have added 'aren't I looking at him?'

It was in that moment, in that look, that Steve's determination crystallised, that the seeds of obsession were sewn. Steve knew in that moment, that somehow, some way, he would track down the person who had done this and bring them to justice. He would prove to everyone that he was innocent and he would avenge the pain and distress that his father had been caused, no matter what it took, no matter how long, he would do it.

He met Mickey's disbelieving gaze, "Yes," he said with a quiet intensity. He took out his wallet and withdrew five twenty-dollar bills. He pushed them across the table. "Find me something, and there's more where that came from."

Mickey's eyes widened as he quickly grabbed the cash and with a longing gaze pocketed it. "Sure Steve, I'll. . .I'll get on it right away." The prospect of a big pay off, quickly dismissed any ideas he had that he was on a wild goose chase. If Steve were prepared to pay this much for information, then there must be information to be found and if that were the case than he would find it.

Steve watched the effect the money had on Mickey's demeanour and knew that he had at least bought one more ally. Wearily he pushed himself to his feet. "I'll be in touch," he stated.

Mickey looked up pulling himself back from the distraction of planning how to spend his newfound wealth. "Yeah Steve, sure Steve, soon as I know anything."

Steve looked up at the neon sign, he wasn't sure what had brought him back here. There was something nagging on his consciousness, something about that night that began here, but he didn't know what it was, and that made his journey here somewhat redundant. Still, he was here now; maybe whatever it was would come to him when he went inside. He took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

The smell of beer and stale tobacco immediately assailed his senses and, as the associations were made in his mind, a wave of nausea passed over him. The smell of beer was so strongly associated with his father's attack that the revulsion was instantaneous, and he had to grab the wall to steady himself, swallowing hard to keep down the meagre bites of food he'd managed to force down during the day.

Taking another deep breath, he pushed away from the wall and walked round the blind entry panel to emerge into the main body of the bar. His presence was instantly noticed and silence spread in a ripple effect across the room. All eyes turned to stare at him and he felt the rush of blood to his cheeks as his body reacted to their scrutiny. The room was full of off duty cops and it was clear that every one of them knew his predicament. Part of Steve wanted to turn and run, to flee the accusation and in some cases malevolence that he could see in their eyes. 'One bad cop tarnishes us all,' the long forgotten words of one of his instructors at the academy, echoed in his head, as clear as if the man was in the room. 'You can expect support from your colleagues if you do your job, they'll back you right down the line, one hundred per cent, but if you let them down. If you ever break the law, the law you are sworn to uphold, then don't expect anything but their contempt.' Steve could see the living embodiment of those words now, but his pride would not allow him to take the easy way out, would not allow him to just turn tail and run. So he ignored them, turning his own attention to the bar, he focused on that and forced his feet to move, to carry him forward into the room.

The buzz of conversation began slowly; following his progress across the room, growing in volume until it was back to the level it had been at when he entered. Steve took a seat.

"What'll you have?" the barman asked.

The part of Steve's mind that had wanted him to run away, now tried to persuade him to order the largest whiskey he could, to tell the barman to keep them coming. The prospect of drinking himself into a dull oblivion, where there was no guilt, no fear, no shame, no emotion, no pain, was so tempting that he almost gave into it. A few drinks would make everything go away, at least for a while, but the same determination that had allowed him to keep walking into the hostile room allowed him to quell the desire, he knew in the long run that that was the path to self destruction, and he wasn't prepared to take that first step. "Just a coke," he replied.

The barman nodded and pulled out a glass, scooping ice into it as he went. "No offence but are you sure this is a place you want to be if you're not even drinking?" The barman asked conversationally, it had been impossible to miss how the room had reacted to Steve's entrance.

"I. . er. . I came here for a reason," Steve stated, still not sure what that reason was.

The barman nodded handing him his drink and was ready to turn away.

"You were on duty Saturday right?" Steve asked.

"I'm on every night," the barman answered, resignedly, "two lots of alimony don't allow for nights off."

"Do you remember me, I was at the party?"

"Sure, you were enjoying yourself, your whole group was a happy bunch, I tend to notice that, not too much happiness in here most nights." The barman gestured around, most of the tables were filled with world-weary occupants, here to drown their sorrows and ease the pain of another day. Not one smiling face could be seen, and the conversation was a quiet hum, rather than the exuberance normally associated with social drinking.

"I don't suppose you remember how much I had to drink?"

The barman studied him for a moment, clearly searching his memory. "Not much considering how long you were in here. I'd say five maybe six beers, your whole group were real lightweights, not like some of the soaks we get." Steve nodded, that tallied with his own memories, he'd spent most of his time talking and joking around, the drinking was incidental, and he only remembered it coming his turn to buy a round once.

"Did you notice anyone or anything out of place?"

The barman shook his head, "Nope, room full of cops as usual, means we don't get much trouble."

Steve nodded, it was the answer he'd expected, why he even thought there was anything to find here he didn't know. He was really grasping at straws on a case with no leads. Nonetheless he took out his card along with the money to pay for his drink, and passed them both over. "Well if you think of anything could you let me know?"

The barman nodded, accepting the generous tip. "Sure."

Steve stood and left without even touching his drink.

Where did he go from here? He'd exhausted any leads that he could think of, and, without access to the police computers, there was no way he could follow the procedures he normally would, checking on similar incidents in the area or criminals already in the system who were known for violent burglary. He looked at his watch, it was getting late, he really should be heading back to Jesse's.

He was so deep in thought that he didn't notice the danger until grasping hands made contact with his upper arms. There was someone on each side, and he couldn't react quickly enough to stop them, as he was thrown viscously back against the wall, the pain of the impact registered only seconds before more fists contacted with his abdomen, and the greater pain drew his attention. He would have doubled over but the hands gripping his arms, now pushed him into the wall, held him firmly, his efforts to pull free proving futile. He vaguely registered the words that were spat at him as blow after blow met its mark. "Let's see how you fare when the other guy is young enough and fit enough to fight back," but it was clear they had no intention of letting him fight. Two of the blows impacted with Steve's face, his head making painful contact with the wall behind, and he lost interest in the proceedings. His head swirled and he could no longer separate existing pains from new ones as the blows kept landing.

He did not hear the protest that stopped the blows to the head. Did not see, or even register, when the man whose fists he felt was finally dragged off him by his colleagues.

"Come on Tom he's had enough, we've taught him a lesson, he won't be hitting anyone for a while."

Officer Tom Quayle, tried hard to rein in his emotions, but the adrenaline that was making blood roar through his system made that difficult. For a police officer, he liked violence far too much. Always first into the fray, always using just a little more force than necessary. He was an adrenaline junkie of the worst kind, enjoying the thrill of danger, but, more than that, he liked the power, the control that physical violence gave you. He drew in several deep breaths as the red haze retreated from his vision, watching with satisfaction as Steve, no longer supported, slid slowly down the wall to the floor. He took a step back and nodded his assent. "You're right," he said, pulling out a handkerchief to clean off his knuckles, "Come on let's get out of here."

Jesse opened up the door to his apartment, expecting to find Steve already there. It was past midnight and even if Steve had decided to occupy his time by going to Bob's, he would have closed up and been back by now. The empty silence that greeted him was disconcerting. He turned the lights on and surveyed the room; there were two bags that had been dumped just inside the door. Nothing else in the room had been touched, so Steve's return here had been brief, but where had he gone after that? The concern that he was already controlling with some difficulty rose another notch. He hadn't been able to reach Steve on his cell all day; calls were always diverted straight to voicemail.

He let out a heavy sigh and tossed his keys onto the counter before heading to the fridge to get himself a drink. It had been a tough day all round. Calming Mark down after filling him on Steve's arrest and the subsequent restraining order had been difficult. Despite his injuries, Mark was all set to march down to police headquarters and tell them what idiots they were being. Even the reminder that he could cause complications to his injuries did nothing to reduce his determination to go. It was only when Jesse had used his ace, had asked Mark, "And how do you think Steve will feel if you collapse whilst you're down there trying to clear him?" That and only that had made Mark pause, and Jesse had followed through his advantage. "Steve's fine, he's probably sitting in my apartment now lamenting the fact that I don't have pay-per-view." He drew a deep breath "We will sort this out," the statement was firm, "if it takes a few days while we wait for you to recover then that's not a problem, but you making yourself worse by getting out of that bed before you should is," Jesse's voice softened. "It's a serious wound Mark and you know it, just give it a little time and everything will work out, you'll see."

Mark rested his head back on the pillows, allowing tense muscles to relax. "When did you get to be so wise?" he asked softly.

"Oh, trust me I learnt from a master," Jesse grinned at his mentor and was gratified to see at least the corners of his mouth rise in acknowledgement of the compliment. It wasn't quite a smile, but under the circumstances meant more than one.

From that point Jesse had managed to persuade Mark to let him give him a sedative, sleep was the best thing for his recuperation and continued worry probably the worst, so he had agreed to it, knowing that the sooner he was recovered the sooner he could help Steve. That just left Jesse to worry about his friend, the continued lack of contact nagging at him through the rest of his shift. The only reassurance that Steve was actually okay had come at around 4 pm when he had called the nurses station on his father's floor for an update on his condition, but Jesse had been busy in the ER at the time and hadn't managed to speak with him. So the worry had continued to nag at him, just below the surface.

Jesse dropped onto the couch and turned on the TV, idly flicking between the channels. There was no point in even trying to sleep until he knew where Steve was, so he finally settled on a repeat of a baseball game, dropping the remote onto the seat beside him.

The shrill ringing of the phone shook him from a semi- conscious stupor; he fumbled for it, turning to catch the time as he did so, 1 am. His heart did a quick flip, calls at this hour only ever meant trouble and with Steve's absence foremost in his thoughts the fear that knotted his intestines after the flip intensified. "Hello?"

"Jess?"

"Steve," Jesse relaxed slightly as he recognised the voice, "am I glad to hear from you, where are you? I thought. . ."

"Jess," the interruption was sharp but the tone used was shaky, the speech hesitant. "I need. . . . Look I'm sorry to ask. I tried. . . . Can you come pick me up?"

"Sure Steve no problem, just tell me where you are."

It took Jesse thirty minutes to get to the intersection that Steve gave him, all the way there he was running over in his mind what he was going to say and do. From the way Steve had sounded, he seemed to be in a similar state to the one he had been at Bob's the day before, and Jesse cursed himself more than once for not insisting that he stay with him; he could have swapped shifts at the hospital if he'd really tried. He should have been there for him, and maybe things wouldn't have reached the point where Steve was wondering the streets in the early hours of the morning. Jesse wasn't even sure how Steve had ended up where he was, it wasn't near anything.

He slowed his car at the junction and, when there was no one immediately obvious, he double-checked the signs to ensure that he was in the right place. He spotted the phone first, the familiar curved outline of the top of the booth, and then he saw the figure huddled below it. He pulled his car across, doing a U-turn on the empty street

and pulling up only a few feet away.

He was so certain that the strain he had heard in Steve's voice was caused by stress that he was completely unprepared for Steve's appearance.

Steve managed to push himself to standing with the help of the metal support that was holding up the payphone, but his legs trembled with the effort, and pain gnawed from the protesting muscles of his chest and abdomen. He couldn't draw himself to his full height, the pain was too great, so he remained slightly stooped as he looked up, and, gritting his teeth, took a step forwards.

"Oh my God!" the exclamation fell unconsciously from Jesse's lips as he took in the torn bloodied shirt, the protective arm clutched across Steve's middle as though he were holding himself together, the bruising that he could see forming even under the dim light of the street lamps. "Steve!" He rushed forward, hooking Steve's arm over his shoulder as he supported him. "What happened?" He asked, helping Steve lean against the body of the car whilst he got the passenger door open

Steve ignored the question, "Sorry I had to call you out this late Jess, I couldn't get a cab so I was going to walk, try to clear my head, but I. . ." He broke off, gritting his teeth again as Jesse helped lower him onto the passenger seat. He took several deep breaths to steady his breathing, as he worked at getting the pain back to a controllable level.

Jesse watched, his anger and frustration building. Why hadn't Steve called him straight away? Why not call 911? Who would be foolhardy enough to try to walk in this condition? Who had done this to him? Why? There were so many questions that Jesse could barely control the flow, but now wasn't the time to get the answers, he had other priorities. "I'll get my bag," he stated heading for the trunk.

Steve nodded his head very slightly; his eyes were still closed as he focused on his breathing. He felt Jesse's return, felt the end of the stethoscope, the blood pressure cuff, the gentle probing fingers, that still caused stabs of agony when they touched a tender spot.

"Steve, open your eyes for me. Come on, stay with me buddy" Jesse said, his tone soft yet commanding.

Obligingly Steve forced his eyes to open, although it seemed like a lot of effort. The adrenaline that had kept him going this far was rapidly dissipating. He had fought hard to stay alert, knowing that his own safety required it, but now he could relinquish his care to Jesse, knowing that he would look after him, and with that realization he lost the need to fight and his body was shutting down, heading for the unconsciousness state that had beckoned for a while.

Jesse allowed Steve to keep his eyes closed for the first part of the examination, but he couldn't let his friend drift into unconsciousness, there were at least two worrying knots on the back of Steve's skull, not to mention the clear bruising and swelling on his face. Steve's eyes were glazed as he opened them and he seemed to be struggling to focus, he pulled out a torch to check pupil reaction and was gratified that it was normal, but the rest of Steve's condition gave him little comfort. He wasn't going to take any chances; there were too many possible complications to even risk driving him in himself. He pulled out his cell.

Steve was still alert enough to notice as Jesse called for the ambulance. "Hey, can't we just go back to your apartment?" Steve asked. "It's only a few bruises, I just need a little rest."

Jesse was already frustrated with his friend, but, in deference to his condition, held his anger in check. He would save the lecture until he was feeling better. "No Steve, I need to get you checked out properly, so just humour me OK?"

Steve didn't reply.

"Come on Steve I need you to stay awake for me," the tone was urgent this time.

Steve's eye's drifted open again and he blinked Jesse into focus.

Jesse knew that he needed a distraction that would keep Steve awake until the ambulance arrived. "Why don't you tell me what happened?" he asked.

Jesse closed the door to Steve's room and rubbed his eyes wearily. It had been a long night, he'd managed to grab a couple of hours sleep in the on-call room but it wasn't nearly enough. He looked up and his heart sank as he saw a familiar white haired figure heading towards him, a determined set to his still too pale features. "Mark you still shouldn't be out of bed," he admonished, knowing that his words would do no good; the hospital grapevine had obviously been working overtime as usual.

"Where is he Jess?"

Jesse answered a different question. "He's fine Mark, bruising to his chest and abdomen, one cracked rib and some mild contusions, it doesn't even look like he has a concussion we only kept him in for observation, and so that he could get some rest."

Mark nodded in acknowledgement of the update, grateful for the information and relieved by its content, but that wasn't what he'd asked. "Where is he?"

Jesse looked back at the door he had just come through, and that was enough for Mark to begin to move forward, Jesse stepped into his path to block him. "But you can't go in, the restraining order. . . you could get him rearrested."

Mark stared into Jesse's eyes for a moment as his brain processed the statement. The empathy that he had felt for his son's predicament over the last few days suddenly formed into reality. He had been hurt and Steve had been unable to see him, had been denied the reassurance that only close proximity, visual confirmation, physical contact could provide. A third party report, even from a trusted friend, just wasn't enough, and Steve had had to endure this for longer than the few minutes Mark had, and even that seemed too much. This had gone on long enough. "The restraining order is against him not me," Mark stated. "They can hardly arrest him if I go looking for him."

Jesse hesitated only for a moment before stepping out of the way.

Mark stifled a sharp intake of breath as he took in Steve's battered appearance, bruising mottled his torso where it could be seen, in stark contrast to the white sheets. His cheek and lip were swollen and tiny butterfly bandages held together the split skin on his cheek and forehead. He did not stir as they entered. Mark walked over to the bed and placed his hand over Steve's, drawing strength from the warmth as he continued to watch his son sleep.

"I've just given him a sedative," Jesse stated quietly, moving around to the opposite side of the bed, "I doubt he'll wake up any time soon."

Mark nodded, at the moment it didn't matter, just being here was enough; they could talk later. "You said he'd be fine," he stated, but there was no hint of accusation in his tone, just an acknowledgement that it wasn't true. "Who did this to him?" He asked, tearing his gaze from his son for a moment to make eye contact with Jesse, before looking down again.

Jesse hesitated, remembering Steve's faltering description from the night before. Part of him didn't want to tell him, knew that it would cause further pain, but he knew that he didn't have the right to deny Mark the truth. "Some police officers, Steve recognised one of them."

"Why?" This time Mark's gaze met and held his.

Jesse looked down at Steve and than back again; he swallowed, "because they believe he hit you?" The way Steve had described it the night before it had sounded like Steve felt they were justified in their actions. "If I were guilty Jess, then I'd deserve this and more, maybe I deserve it anyway." Jesse hadn't managed to get to the bottom of the latter half of the comment, but for the first time it was clear to him the strength of the guilt that Steve was feeling for what had happened, and it made some of his other reactions over the last couple of days more understandable, but what he had to feel guilty about Jesse wasn't sure.

Tears formed in Mark's eyes as he looked down at Steve, but he did not let them fall, he felt the prickling burn and repressed the desire to give in to it, Steve did not deserve this, did not deserve any of it, the injustice burned within him and distress, turned quickly to anger. He reiterated his earlier thought. "This has gone on long enough." He looked up again at Jesse "Look after him, I'm going to sort this out."

Mark allowed only a moment of weakness as he stepped from the cab; grim determination was keeping him going, as he fought against the residual effects of his injuries. He leant against the wall and took several deep breaths. When this was over he could rest. He would go back to the hospital and do everything that Jesse said, but for now, for this moment he needed to be strong.

He took one last breath and squared his shoulders, striding purposefully into the building. "I'm looking for an assistant prosecutor by the name of Jeffries." He addressed the young male receptionist.

"Is he expecting you?" the young man asked.

"I'm a witness for one of his cases and I believe he needs to talk to me." Mark replied, there was nothing untrue in his statement, but that was not the case for the meaning that would be assumed.

The young man nodded, "Name?" he asked, picking up the phone.

"Dr. Mark Sloan."

It was twenty minutes before Mark was ushered to a small office on the third floor. He regarded the young man who stood to greet him with cold disdain, this was the enemy, and only by treating him as such could Mark possibly achieve what he had come here to accomplish. He had spent his twenty minutes fruitfully, allowing the anger at the injustice of Steve's treatment a full reign on his emotions and through it he gained strength, shaping and forming it into a weapon, using the emotion to give him the energy to counter his current weaknesses. He sat down stiffly; drawn to his full height in the chair he could be an imposing figure, the strength of his personality filled the small room.

Mark could rarely be described as intimidating, his normal jovial features were usually set to put others at ease, but, if he really wanted to, he could take out a crowded room with one look, as many a board member had found out to their cost, and when he began to speak, well, the opposition usually crumbled. George Jeffries was already halfway there as he met Mark's stare.

"Dr. Sloan," he said, dropping back into his chair after the half stand he had managed in greeting. He cleared his throat nervously. "How can I help you?"

"Very simple I want you to drop the charges against my son."

"Ah," Jeffries said slowly, pleased to be on familiar ground. "I understand. It's quite common in this sort of case for the victim to not want charges to be pressed, but you have to understand that it is at our discretion. We must protect those who are unwilling or unable to protect themselves."

The obsequious smile along with his inadvertent repeat of the phrasing that Mark had objected to the day before, made Mark's blood boil, but he said nothing, he just continued to stare.

Jeffries swallowed, "I'm sure that you love your son, but that doesn't mean he can be allowed to get away with. . ."

That was enough for Mark. "My son is getting away with nothing because he is innocent," he stated, firmly.

"Well of course, you would say that but. ,"

"I say it because it's true," Mark interrupted again. "When your officer spoke to me yesterday I couldn't remember anything, but that's the funny thing about amnesia, you can remember nothing one minute, and everything the next, and today I remember everything, I remember Steve coming in, I remember getting up and meeting him in the kitchen, I remember hearing a noise and going to investigate and I remember a masked intruder who struck me and shot at my son." He leaned forward in his chair. "Of course, you could be foolish enough not to believe me, but if this goes to trial I can assure you that I'll be a witness for the defence. Not only am I a well respected member of the community I'm also Chief of Internal Medicine at Community General Hospital and a member of the board. I think you'll have a difficult time convincing a jury that I am both a helpless victim and a liar. I have a hundred witnesses that I can bring forward to attest both to my character and to that of my son, and many of them can also bear witness to the excellent relationship that we share, and what do you have to counter our account of what happened? Any witnesses? No, just circumstantial evidence. You haven't a hope of successfully prosecuting this case." Mark's eyes narrowed as he went in for the kill. "And when this case is thrown out, I will file a suit for malicious prosecution against you and the county so fast you won't have time to leave the building." He paused to allow his words to sink in. "So what do you think Mr. Jeffries, do you think you have a chance of convincing anyone that I need your protection?"

Jeffries swallowed again.

Mark was satisfied by the response, he knew he had won. "So let's start again, I want you to drop the charges against my son."

Mark awoke blearily, vaguely aware, even before his eyes focused, that he was back in the hospital. He did not remember the journey back; his strength had deserted him shortly after he got into the cab. The effort of maintaining a strong front had taken a lot out of his weakened system, and he had just managed to get out his destination before he lost consciousness.

He turned to scan the room and realized that he was being watched. "Steve," he said, barely able to control the emotion in his voice, as he caught sight of his son sitting in the chair by his bed, relief, joy, love, all battled for his attention, and a warmth of positive emotion spread through his system as he smiled properly for the first time in days.

"Hi, dad," Steve returned the smile, but with less conviction. His own negative emotions had too strong a hold for even this close contact to completely calm him. The 48 hours of separation had allowed the guilt and self-recrimination to build to a point where, when he looked at his father's injuries, he could see only his own failure to protect, his own inadequacy. The projection of blame by others, however unwarranted, had fuelled his emotion. If Mark had been able to reassure him at the time that he wasn't to blame, if others hadn't accused him, then maybe it wouldn't have become so deeply ingrained, so buried, that though it was not immediately obvious on the surface, it ran, like a dark undercurrent, through everything he thought, everything he felt. For now though, it was hidden beneath the relief of finally being able to see for himself that his father was okay.

"How long have you been here?" Mark asked, scrutinizing his son carefully.

"Jesse released me about two hours ago, about the same time the restraining order was lifted." He shifted in his seat, grimacing slightly at the pain the movement caused. "I don't know what you said to that prosecutor, but apparently he called in a favour with a judge to expedite proceedings."

Mark smiled again. "Let's just say I pointed out the weaknesses in his case."

"Yeah, well I'm grateful anyway." He paused, lost for a moment in thought. "I'm really glad you remember what happened." The statement was heartfelt. There was something about being the only one who had witnessed something, when nobody else believed you, that was incredibly lonely, disconcerting. There was great comfort in knowing that he wasn't alone any more.

Mark nodded, but something in his expression gave him away.

Steve stared for a moment. "You don't remember do you?"

Mark paused, knowing that he had been caught out but still debating whether to continue the lie anyway. "No," he finally admitted, "I'm sorry, I still don't remember any of it."

"Then why did you. . . .?" he started to ask, but he didn't need to. He knew why his father had dragged himself from his hospital bed to confront the prosecutor. He knew the motivation for lying about what he remembered, for ultimately being prepared to perjure himself. It came down to simple but powerful words indicating simple but powerful emotions, love, faith, trust. His father loved him enough to do this for him, trusted completely in his version of events as being the truth, and had absolute faith in him. Part of Steve wanted to be angry at the risks his father had taken, but these emotions melted away as he contemplated his father's faith, his love. He looked into his eyes, acknowledging that there was no need for the question. "Thank you." He said quietly.

Porter had been sure that his boss would be angry at the latest turn of events and was thus shocked when the man smiled.

"Good," he said thoughtfully, "Now we can move on to phase two, start making preparations."

Porter couldn't help but express his surprise, why wasn't the man annoyed, phase one of his plan had gone wrong. "But I thought you wanted. . .?" he began, but a raised hand stopped his question mid-way through. Even through the Plexiglas in the prison visiting room, Porter could feel his superior's emotion, and responded instantly to even non verbal commands.

The prisoner sighed, as if about to explain something to a very stupid child. "Do you know what it takes to destroy a man?" The question was clearly rhetorical. "First you take away everything he holds dear, his family, his friends, his career, his reputation, but you must do it slowly, patiently. To really work it must seem like he's doing it to himself, and then," he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a quiet intensity that sent chills down Porters spine, "when he's at his lowest ebb, then and only then can you strike the final blow." He stared Porter directly in the eye, making him shift uncomfortably in his seat. "Patience, my friend, patience is required, and I have all the time in the world for this. Now, as I said, make preparations to move to phase two."

TO BE CONTINUED. . .


	6. Steve and Amanda part 1

Authors note: Many apologies for taking so long to post. There are a multitude of reasons which I won't go into here, but you can thank Sarah's nagging for me finally getting to this point. I really hope you enjoy it.-Judith

Chapter 6: Steve and Amanda Part 1 

Mark spotted his colleagues long before they saw him. They seemed deep in conversation their backs to him. "Do you mind if I join you?" he asked, making them both start slightly at the unexpected intrusion. The startled expressions were however short-lived as both of his young friends reacted with abject pleasure.

"Mark," Amanda greeted, her face lighting up with a positively beaming smile of welcome. She moved across to give him a hug, almost causing him to drop the tray that she somehow manoeuvred around.

Jesse stood too, taking the tray from Mark's hands and placing it on the table as his own smile grew. "Mark, it's good to see you back."

Amanda had tightened her hug, squeezing the air from Mark's lungs before pulling away.

"Well if I'd known I'd get this sort of reception I'd make sure I was out sick a little more often," Mark joked, the familiar sparkle back in his eye. Both Jesse and Amanda were relieved to see it. After the trauma he had suffered only three short weeks ago they had both feared that his recovery might take much longer.

"Jesse, said you'd be in today, but I didn't think it would be this early."

"It's not supposed to be," Jesse admonished gently as they all took seats around the table. "You're supposed to be taking it easy for the first week, short days, late starts early finishes remember?"

"I know Doctor and I promise to take it easy." Mark stated, acknowledging the concern.

"So why are you here in time for breakfast?" Jesse asked, indicating the uninviting porridge that Mark had selected from the canteens' mediocre fare. "Have you had enough of the early morning view of the beach?"

"Well I was hoping to have breakfast with Steve," Mark stated, "But he was up and out very early and I didn't fancy eating alone."

"How's Steve coping?" Amanda asked "I haven't seen too much of him recently although he's volunteered to take the boys out Saturday."

There was something very subtle that shifted in Mark's mood that betrayed the fact that Amanda had touched a nerve. "He seems to be fine," Mark stated, his brow creasing slightly "Physically all of his injuries have healed. . ." he let the rest of the sentence hang.

"But you're worried about him?" Amanda asked.

Mark nodded, "Despite being at home for the best part of three weeks I've still hardly seen him. He's pushing himself too hard, leaving for work early and often getting back late, and of course, he went back long before he should have. I'd say it was typical of him but. . ." He paused, looking first at Jesse and then back at Amanda as he tried to put his very real concerns into words. "There's something different going on and I can't get him to talk to me about it." He fixed his gaze on Jesse again. "Has he said anything to you?"

Jesse's own frown deepened a little. "To tell you the truth we haven't spoken much since he returned to work against my advice." Jesse's eyes clouded for a moment as he remembered the argument they'd had. . .

"I need you to sign me back in as fit for work Jess." Steve stated, his frustration showing in his tone. "My suspension's been lifted and I really need to get back."

"But your injuries haven't healed yet Steve." Jesse felt a sense of déjà vu as he tried to retain his own patience. "You need to give your body time to recover from the trauma it's suffered and. . ." he paused choosing his words carefully. "You've also been under a lot of stress in the last few days." His tone softened. "You need to take the time to recover from that too."

"I'm fine," Steve stated for what seemed like the hundredth time, his frustration rapidly turning to anger. Why didn't Jesse understand that the best thing for his mental recovery was to get back to work? To face what he knew he would find there, the whispers and the taunts from those who were ignorant, from those who would believe the gossip, from those who had the 'no smoke without fire' mentality. He needed to face it, rather than putting it off. If he didn't, it would grow in his imagination to become far worse than the reality.

Not that the reality wouldn't be bad.

Why didn't Jesse understand that he had something important, something that wouldn't wait that he had to do? He had to go back to work so that he could find the person who had injured his father so grievously? He had to, the compulsion gnawed at him like a bad itch, at least a part of his thought processes were always absorbed by it, and sometimes it just took over, wouldn't, couldn't be quelled. Jesse had to understand that.

He had come far too close to losing Mark, to watching it happen. The images swirled in the periphery of his consciousness, ever present, drifting into focus in unguarded moments. If he tried to relax, if he tried to sleep, and nothing short of catching the man responsible was going to offer any comfort.

Why didn't Jesse understand that?

He stared at Jesse for a moment, considered putting his thoughts into words, but he couldn't do it, a stubborn part of his brain stamping it's metaphorical foot and telling him he shouldn't have to, that Jesse should just understand. This was what he had to do. A more rational part of him acknowledged that it was just too difficult, carried too much emotion. It was a vulnerability that he couldn't bring himself to show, even to his best friend. The rationality was brief, the anger asserting itself again. "I don't need any more time away from work I have a job to do." His voice was increasing in volume to match the emotion.

"And your job will wait," Jesse's own tone becoming a little more terse, although it still had a pleading edge to it. "Your body needs more time to heal."

"I'm at least up to riding a desk," Steve insisted. "I've done that feeling worse than I do now." his eyes narrowed. "Or do I have to find another doctor to confirm that." He pressed the point, hoping that Jesse would give in, hoping that it wouldn't come to that. Jesse was one of the few friends that he had at the moment, he didn't really want to alienate him.

Jesse let out a long sigh, knowing that this was one argument he was going to have to concede defeat on, however reluctantly. Steve would be able to get someone else to sign him back on for light duties. He would be able to suck it up enough to convince someone who didn't know him, that his injuries weren't really severe enough to stop him working altogether, but Jesse knew him better than most doctors would, and he knew that Steve would be faking most of the good health, not admitting to the pain he was still feeling, and he really did need the time to recover from the psychological ordeal as well, but Steve wouldn't even be mentioning that if he did switch doctors. He had been doing this long enough to know all of the right things to say. "OK I'll sign you back for light duties," Jesse didn't try to hide his reluctance, "but I'll be ringing your captain to make sure that you're following my instructions and not over exerting yourself."

Steve smiled his gratitude. "Thanks Jess," but his smile quickly faded when Jesse failed to acknowledge it. He had clearly upset his friend, but there was little else he could do. He needed to be back at work. Once this was solved he would make it up to him.

"I've only really seen him when he's taken over from me at Bob's," Jesse continued, "and last Thursday when we had the staff shortage and were both on, but we were so busy we hardly spoke."

"But he seemed OK to you?" Mark pressed.

"A little preoccupied maybe," Jesse admitted, "Like he gets when he's wrapped up in a big case."

Mark let out a small sigh and sat back. "I was afraid that was it?"

"Why?" Amanda asked her curiosity piqued at Mark's reaction.

Mark looked at her levelly. "I told you I was worried that he's been working too hard?"

Amanda nodded in response.

"So I did a little checking up, had an informal chat with Captain Newman, and he told me that Steve is on a very light case load at the moment, has been since. . ." Mark paused, not sure which of the incidents to categorize. "My attack," he finally settled on. "He's barely doing more than mopping up the open and shut cases. Apparently there was a little trouble with some of the other officers but Newman wouldn't give me any details."

It had been three days, three days of heading in to work knowing that the only thing between you and the end of the day was a pile of paper that you hated under the best of circumstances and, since this was bordering on the worst of circumstances, the prospect seemed all the more unbearable. Still he could endure it, would endure it, because it gave him access to the computer system, to the files and searches that he needed.

That wasn't the only problem though. He had put up with stares and whispers before; people watching him with strange expressions, and beginning to talk animatedly once he was past; rooms going quiet when he entered; people he had known for years approaching him like he was some stranger that they didn't know quite how to address, but it was different this time.

He had been accused of many things before, including murder when four fellow officers had set him up, and dealing with that had been difficult, since proving their guilt only set him up for other kinds of mental abuse, from those who believed that the police force were some kind of brethren, that you didn't grass on your own. After all, it was ultimately only some criminal who had met his demise wasn't it? Steve had known better, had known what the men were capable of, and, with Mark's help, he had stopped them. There were some who hadn't cared, murderer or traitor to the badge, and Steve had been vilified all the same, but somehow on that occasion it hadn't mattered as much to him as it did now that other people knew and believed the truth. He would rather people think of him as a murderer than as someone who would beat his own father. The whispers and the stares hurt, like daggers stabbing into his soul. Each look fed the demons that plagued him. For, although he hadn't hurt Mark, he'd failed to prevent that hurt from happening, failed because he was drunk. Each whisper spoke to him, told him that no one believed him; fed the obsession to find proof that he hadn't, to find the man that had.

On that third day when Sergeant Groves made the comment, Steve had had enough. Every trail he'd tried so far was a dead end, there was to be no easy solution. He would have to work through every burglary file checking for similarities, and, there was the growing possibility that the attack was aimed at his father and not a robbery gone wrong, so he would need to backtrack through all of his father's old case files. A daunting enough task, but he had to fit it in around his ordinary workload, no one was going to give him time to investigate this. He was too close to the case, and the people who had been assigned it were already sure they knew who did it, so he would get no help there. Worst of all he couldn't ask for help from the one person he normally turned to, the one person he knew would help him unconditionally, and he couldn't ask, not this time. He could barely stand to look into his father's eyes. Expecting to see in them the hurt, the accusation and even though it was never there, he could not shake the irrational fear that the next time he looked it might be.

"So Sloan you found your one armed man yet?" Groves asked, his voice dripping sarcasm.

Steve wasn't sure why it happened at that point. Why all the pent up anger and frustration spilled out at that fairly innocuous comment. Maybe it was because it was one of the few that had been said to his face. Maybe the strain of self-control in the face of injustice had just become too much. The damn broke. The emotion flooded his system, flowed through his brain, washed down over his skin setting it tingling. His movements were swift and strong but he had no conscious connection to them. When he finally became aware of his position, he had a terrified looking sergeant pinned against the wall, his arm across his throat perilously close to crushing his windpipe. He stared for a moment into the terrified eyes, as he attempted to regain control, attempted to quell the red rage that had briefly found a focus.

When he spoke his tone was tight. "Just remember, the man I'm looking for, just like the one armed man Richard Kimble sought, is real. Only I intend to find him."

Groves, realising that Steve's anger had run out of steam, found his voice. "You're insane Sloan," he stated, allowing some of his own anger to show. "You just lost it. Is that how it happened with your old man? Did he say something you didn't like?"

Steve stared, for a split second the anger almost took over again; he almost shoved Groves further into the wall, but the words hit a nerve. Triggered the more rational side of his brain to question his actions. What was he doing? Giving people even less reason to believe him? He let go and stood back. "No, I didn't. . ." he began the denial but couldn't finish it. "I'm sorry I'm kinda on edge," he tried.

"You can say that again," Groves said adjusting his shirt as another officer entered the locker room. "You just stay away from me Sloan. D'ya hear?" Groves skirted his way along the wall until he was out of Steve's reach and then left.

Steve stared after him long after he had disappeared through the door, silently cursing himself.

He was lucky. The lecture from Newman only lasted fifteen minutes, the punishment only involved more paperwork, a little longer riding his desk, but that suited him just fine. He could get more files read that way, run a few more computer searches. The penalty for assaulting a fellow officer could have been much more severe.

Newman watched him leave, hoping that this would be the last incident, that Steve could put this behind him and sort himself out. He would hate to have to suspend him; would hate to lose him. He would keep his caseload as light as possible for a while; keep him on the minor stuff to give this a chance to blow over. His brow furrowed in a frown as he watched Steve walk back to his desk. All he could do was hope that time would be enough.

"So what do you think he's working on?" Jesse asked.

"Jesse!" Amanda looked pointedly at him for being so slow, or maybe for asking before thinking.

It took him a split second to verbalise the answer to his own question. "He's trying to find the man who attacked you."

Mark nodded. "If he succeeds then he'll clear his name. . ."

"And he'll get the person responsible for hurting you." Amanda interjected.

Jesse let out a low whistle. "No wonder he's been so preoccupied." He frowned, "but why isn't he asking us for help?"

Mark met his gaze. "I don't know Jess and that's part of what has me so worried." He paused for a moment. "It's almost as if he's," he paused again. "Avoiding me," he finally completed. He turned to look at Amanda. "No offence honey, but I think that's why he's volunteered to take the boys out Saturday. It's the one day when our day's off coincide and I asked if we could do something together, but he said he'd already arranged something with you." There was a longer pause. "He's found somewhere to go every time he's been off while I've been at home and then on the first weekend we could get together . . .Well I'd say I'm being paranoid but I've got this bad feeling. . . " The sentence trailed off.

"It's been a traumatic few weeks, maybe he just needs some time to adjust." Amada suggested.

"Maybe," Mark allowed.

"I'm sure he just needs some time." Jesse agreed, trying to sound more confident than he felt. Mark's instincts were rarely wrong. It was what made him such a good doctor, such a good detective.

"He's probably just worried about you. Give it another couple of weeks and I'm sure things will settle themselves down." Amanda squeezed his hand in reassurance and gave him her best smile, and, not for the first time in the past few weeks, Mark was grateful for the strength his friends gave him.

Saturday was a beautiful day, not that that was unusual for LA in spring. The temperature was a comfortable 75, there was the odd wisp of cloud in the sky but otherwise the conditions were perfect for a day in the park, and for the first time in weeks Steve was genuinely enjoying himself. There was something about spending time in the company of children. It was as if their innocence rubbed off on you, and suddenly all the worries and responsibilities that came with being an adult seemed to not matter as much. Cares and worries were washed away by a giggle, forgotten, at least temporarily, beneath the light cadence of a laugh. The whole world suddenly seemed a much more interesting and curious place, and Steve found himself staring just as intently as either of the two boys who lay by his side at the bug that crawled to the top of the blade of grass. Steve thought it was some sort of beetle, but he couldn't be sure. Still its tiny movements were captivating.

The day had gone great so far, they had spent the morning practicing baseball and Steve had relished the chance to get his muscles moving again. The bruising from the beating had faded to nothing and he had been working out over the past week to try to restore full mobility, but a trip to the gym was not a patch, for stretching and turning, on a baseball session with two young boys. They wore him out completely and he finally admitted defeat by declaring that it was time for lunch. After large quantities of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and fresh fruit had been consumed, the boys, Steve included, stretched out on the grass in the sun to watch the world go by. Steve knew that the brief respite from manic tearing around wouldn't last long, so he made the most of it. The boys had just started to get restless when he had spotted the bug and that had brought him a few more minutes grace.

"Can I go climb now uncle Steve?" CJ finally said, looking up.

"Yeah I wanna show you how good I am on the monkey bars." Dion piped in enthusiastically as a chorus of 'can we pleases' began.

Steve looked thoughtful for a moment as though he was trying to make his mind up, covering the fact that this had been the plan all along. "Hmm I suppose if you promise to be good."

The chorus changed to "Oh we will," with a healthy sprinkling of 'please uncle Steves,' until finally Steve nodded, and the boys ran round and round him venting their excitement at the victory of their persuasive powers. With that Steve found himself ten minutes later, standing as an observer as the two boys excitedly showed off their climbing and swinging prowess on the various frames and obstacles that the park had to offer. He looked around at the assortment of other parents and carers who joined him as silent observers. Their expressions ran from interest and pleasure at their child's antics, through boredom to practiced indifference, and Steve idly wondered how he would react if this weren't such a novelty, if he had sons of his own to bring here weekend after weekend. Would he too lose that sense of pleasure that he felt as he watched them enjoy themselves. It took him only a few moments to decide that it wouldn't. His own father had never lost that joy, even now he occasionally caught Mark watching him running or surfing and knew that he took pleasure in his enjoyment, and if his father could still feel that way now, then he hoped that if he ever had children then he could feel the same. He had just started a more in depth speculation about the attitudes of his fellow supervisors when the shout from behind caught his attention.

He turned and looked, less than twenty feet behind him a boy hung precariously from a tree, yelling for help whilst his mother stood below, calling for the same. Steve glanced back to check on the position of CJ and Dion, pushing himself to his feet as he did so. Having satisfied himself that they were safe he headed over to the tree.

"Please, my boy," the woman said running directly to him, "You have to help my boy."

Steve didn't notice that she had bypassed several other potential rescuers to approach him, as a small crowd began to gather.

"It's OK Ma'am I'm a police officer," Steve said confidently, taking charge. "Don't worry we'll get your boy down." He moved to position himself underneath the child, ready to break his fall, in case he fell while they were deciding on the best course of action to take. The boy was dangling from both arms about twelve feet above the ground, his legs a couple of feet above Steve's reach.

"I could climb up there and lower him down to you."

Steve looked at the young man who had spoken, he was in his late teens and had the sort of wiry build that only climbers and distance runners seem to have. Steve studied the tree; it wasn't a difficult climb. He could easily make it himself except he was afraid his weight would move the branch too much. They didn't have a lot of time.

"You sure you can make it? Steve asked.

"Larry," the boy supplied, "and I do a lot of free climbing out in the hills. This'll be a cake walk."

Steve nodded his agreement and turned back to the distraught woman. "What's the boys name?"

"Paul, please you have to do something."

Steve shouted up to the boy. "Paul I want you to keep holding on tight. My friend Larry is coming up to help you, and I'm here to catch you if you fall so everything's going to be all right. You just hang on OK."

"I'm gonna fall." Paul shouted out.

"No, you're not, Paul, just listen to me. Hold on tight. I know that you can do it."

By now all other activity on the playground had ceased as parents and children alike gathered to watch the unfolding rescue. The atmosphere was tense and Steve was not alone in his position under the boy, there were plenty of hands there ready to catch him as Larry worked his way out to him along the branch.

There was a collective sigh of relief and a spontaneous round of applause for the rescuers as Larry lowered the boy into Steve's waiting arms, and he, in turn, handed the boy over to his mother, who alternated between thanking everyone, squeezing her son in a tight embrace and chastising him for climbing the tree in the first place.

Steve accepted only a short thank you as he quickly forgot the rescue and concentrated on finding his own charges. Dion was easy to spot amongst the crowd of watching children but CJ was nowhere to be seen. Scanning the crowd as he moved Steve quickly made his way over to Dion.

"Dion, where's your brother?" he asked as he approached.

Dion also began to look round. "I don't know, he followed me over to watch what was happening but I didn't see him after that." He looked slightly guilty. "I'm sorry I was too busy watching the boy in the tree."

Steve forced a smile. "Well don't worry about it let's say we go find him?"

Dion nodded and took Steve's offered hand.

He scanned the dispersing crowd, began to move through it, at first confident that CJ had just gone back to some climbing of his own, but as he began his second circuit around the play area, Dion in tow, that confidence was quickly evaporating to be replaced by a growing sense of dread. He felt the blood drain slowly from his face, the icy chill descending across his skin, incongruous with the warmth of the sun. By the time he stopped in the midst of the third circuit, he had to acknowledge the random tightening of his gut, the claws that scraped at his dry throat. He stood in the middle of the play area and turned around slowly once. Forced to admit that CJ was gone.

His mind raced. He couldn't be gone. He was just over there, behind someone or something. He would come back at any moment and he'd get to shout at him for running off like that. He was here somewhere. He had to be. The alternative was beyond contemplation. Denial wasn't working. The fear grew.

They still hadn't checked out the restrooms or the drinks vendor they had seen, maybe he'd gone for candy? Maybe he was bored and he'd gone back to the truck? Steve knew that CJ wouldn't do any of these things, not without asking, but he had to check. He tried to play down the outward signs of his anxiety, speculating with Dion about how much trouble his brother would be in when they found him. He needed Dion to remain calm. It was an odd pretence. He knew that Dion wasn't fooled, knew that he was humouring him, and yet they both kept up the act for the other, unprepared to allow the alternative.

With each passing second came a strange mixture of hope and anxiety. Part of Steve kept telling him that CJ would appear at any moment and that everything would be all right, but as time ticked on and CJ wasn't there the fear grew, crawled up and down his spine as every muscle tensed.

They made it back to the truck. No sign of him. Steve almost screamed in frustration. He was just ready to turn back, to renew the search when his eye was drawn to a paper under the wiper. He wasn't sure why it caught his attention it could just have been a flyer, but somehow he knew that it wasn't.

He let go of Dion's hand, a grip that neither of them had loosened since they began their search, and covered the last few feet to his truck. Tentatively he reached out and took the folded sheet. Time slowed as he opened it and the words seemed to blur for a moment. He was in a bubble, just him and the piece of paper, nothing else. The blurring resolved to a crystal sharp clarity and he read. "We have the boy. Wait for instructions."

TO BE CONTINUED. . .


	7. Steve and Amanda part 2

Author's note: I've decided that the only way that I'm going to update this with anything resembling the regularity it needs is to write shorter chapters (i.e. just write in shorter blocks not cut out any of the detail) I hope that's ok with everyone reading this and I hope that you continue to enjoy it. - Judith

**Chapter 7 :- Steve and Amanda Part 2**

Steve wasn't sure how he managed to function, but function he did. It was as if his consciousness split, the emotional part of his mind retreating to somewhere safe, somewhere that he wouldn't have to deal with the overwhelming feelings of responsibility and fear. The gut-wrenching, knife twisting emotional pain of knowing that CJ was missing, of not knowing what was happening to him beyond the certainty that someone had him, and wherever he was he would be terrified and alone, possibly hurt. The depth of responsibility he felt was almost physically painful, but it was nothing compared to the devastating effect this was going to have on one of his closest friends. The retreat was almost total, his emotional consciousness hiding, watching, a spectator to what his body was doing. He moved, he spoke, to a certain extent he even took charge, but he wasn't really there. He was just watching.

Watching as the note dropped onto the hood of the truck. Watching as he got Dion settled and calmly gave him instructions. Watching as he pulled on gloves and placed the note in an evidence bag. Watching as he called for backup.

Time was measured only in actions. With each task accomplished he was forced to acknowledge that there must have been some passage of time, and with each passing minute their chances of finding a vital clue dwindled. The parking lot filled with vehicles, black and white patrol cars, ubiquitous light and dark grey sedans, some with roof lights some without, and vans that somehow couldn't park in anything remotely resembling the bays, each sitting at a different angle to the alignment as though they were making some sort of statement. 'Vans don't have to conform' or 'vans for anarchy.'

The media were also gathering but so far had been kept at a discrete distance. Not so the crowds of curious onlookers, many of them had been prevented from reaching their cars or leaving, as the officers struggled to take all of their statements; they were all potential witnesses. Some didn't seem to mind, taking the opportunity to gather in small groups, talking in low voices about what each had seen, marvelling at the fact that they were witnesses to both a dramatic rescue and a kidnapping in the same park in a single afternoon. Others grew increasingly impatient at the delays. This didn't have anything to do with them, they didn't know the boy who had been taken, hadn't seen anything. Why should they stay?

Other officers scanned the park for clues, spreading out in lines as they attempted to cover the huge area in a reasonable time, whilst simultaneously managing to keep their search detailed enough so that they did not miss anything. It was an impossible task but they attempted it anyway. Experience taught them all that time was a precious commodity in cases like this. If they didn't find the boy alive soon then they probably wouldn't find him.

Steve knew that.

Steve had found a distraction in assigning the tasks at first; helping to coordinate as more and more help arrived. His authority was however quickly usurped as first a detective, and then two FBI agents arrived to take over. Normally he would have argued more to stay in the loop, but that would require interactions in his mind that just weren't happening. It required emotion to plead his case, and at the moment the only part of him that was functioning had no emotions. So he watched himself becoming increasingly sidelined. Giving his own statement in a dry monotone voice that did not seem to be his own, and then he had nothing to do.

With no emotion there was nothing to do except stand and stare at the ongoing activity. With no tasks to accomplish there was no passage of time.

And then she was there. Standing in front of him. He only saw the last few steps of her approach, but it was enough to read the awkward, rapid, agitated movements. She stopped in front of him and stared deep into his eyes, barely controlled tears pooled in her own making them seem even wider, darker than normal..

"Steve," her voice was breathy. "They tried to tell me something happened to CJ," the barest touch of panic wrapped in desperation. "But he was with you. I tried to tell them that you wouldn't let anything happen to him, but they wouldn't listen they kept saying. . ." All the time she was speaking she was scanning his face, desperately wanting, needing him to support the denial, to feed the lie.

It was too much for Steve to hide from; his friend was hurting. She needed him and whatever comfort or help he could give, he owed her that much, and so much more. His emotions crashed back, melding the two sides to his consciousness with a speed that left him feeling light-headed, dizzy. He took a moment to process her last words.

"Please Steve tell me that he's all right." She looked round him on either side, as though she expected her son to come running forwards towards her. "Tell me that he's safe with you. That this is a huge mistake. Please Steve?" The last two words were spoken with a pitiful desperation, the tears welled again, the pain behind them obvious.

Steve did not have the vocabulary to express his regret, his sorrow, his culpability, his desire to find CJ and bring him home again. Mere words could not convey the strength of his emotion, but he had to say something. She needed him to say something. "Amanda I. . ."

The two words were enough; he didn't need to go any further. Denial was no longer possible. This wasn't a mistake; someone had taken her son. The mask of despair was quickly replaced by anger, frustration, a red haze as her skin burned. "No!" She almost screamed. "You were supposed to look after him." She drew her hand back and slapped him hard across the face.

He didn't flinch, didn't react, it stung, but not nearly as much as the knowledge of what he had done to her.

His lack of reaction only served to deepen the anger. The emotion needed a release and Steve was the convenient target. She stared into his eyes once mor,e only this time the look of anger, of accusation, of hatred, bored straight into his soul. It was a look that would haunt his waking hours and plague his nightmares. The fact that it was a product of the situation and not aimed at him would serve no comfort to a psyche that was developing self-recrimination to an art form. The words and actions that followed only serving to reinforce his guilt.

Both of her hands turned to fists and she began to rain blows down on his chest. He made no effort to block them as strike after strike was delivered with all of her strength "He's my son," she shouted. "You were supposed to look after him. You were supposed to protect him." With each word her tone lowered, the speech becoming more and more punctuated with strangled sobs.

Steve didn't even notice the pain from the blows, the words hurt far more.

"You were supposed to look after him. How could you let this happen? Why. . .? Why. . .?Why didn't you protect him?" The blows got softer as her strength drained away, the last question, dying to a whisper of choked off sobs. Steve put his arms around her and drew her head onto his chest, cradling her there protectively as the near hysterical sobbing continued.

He rocked her gently trying to offer what comfort he could but knowing that it was wholly inadequate. What would he do if they didn't get CJ back? More importantly what would it do to Amanda? He looked up and found himself staring straight into the clear blue eyes of his father.

Mark stood about six feet away. Steve had no idea how long he'd been there, but he was grateful for his presence now. For the first time in more than three weeks, he met and held his father's gaze. Whatever he had feared he might see there was forgotten amid the new maelstrom of emotion. Not that there was any need for fear. The eyes that stared back at him held only compassion and empathy in their depths, and, for a moment, a mental bridge formed between the two men. Steve drew strength as he always had from knowing that his father was there for him. The love was unconditional, always had been. If only he could hold onto that. For the briefest of moments he did, and then the choking sobs against his chest pulled his attention back. The suffocating tendrils of guilt, making use of the distraction, insidiously winding themselves around any thoughts of comfort and dragging them back into he subconscious where they could not help.

Amanda's breathing was ragged, her thought processes consumed by an anguish that could not form into words, she was no longer able to rationally control her responses as each sob shook her whole body, the only thing holding her upright was Steve's firm embrace, as reaction took hold.

Steve looked down in alarm, as Amanda's knees seemed to give out, tightening his embrace to prevent her from falling; he looked back to his father who was already moving forward.

Mark moved in to take a look at his friend. He did not need to imagine the pain that she was experiencing; he had lost a child, had faced the fear and uncertainty of not knowing what had happened when one of his children was in danger, but his children had been much older, CJ was so young, so innocent. He forced a block on some of the empathy. Amanda needed his help, not his pity, and, from the look he had just exchanged with his son, so did Steve. He had had time to consider the effect of this on his son's already strained mental state on the drive over, and he did not like any of the conclusions he was forced to draw. The exchange he had just witnessed between his son and Amanda only reinforcing his fears, but for now he was forced to repress those concerns, Amanda's current need was greater than Steve's.

"My car's just back here," he stated, avoiding unnecessary conversation.

Steve nodded preparing to carry her if necessary, but it wasn't needed, Amanda's sobs died down a little and she drew slow shuddering breaths into her oxygen deprived lungs.

It was Mark's voice that allowed the change, the gentle tones giving her renewed strength. "Mark?" she asked tenuously, blinking tear flooded eyes into an almost focus on her friend and mentor. "Oh Mark," She said with a tinge of relief. "Thank God you're here." She found the strength from somewhere to abandon Steve's support completely, moving round instead into Mark's embrace as he instinctively opened his arms.

Steve felt the abandonment. It carried as much of a sting as the earlier physical slap to the face. He took a step back as Mark gently coaxed their distraught friend back to his car, it was all Steve could do to stand and watch.

Mark was unaware that Steve was not following until he had Amanda seated in the front seat, her crying becoming almost uncontrollable again. He stood to retrieve his bag and turned to see Steve still standing where he had left him. He looked down at Amanda; she was in too bad a state to leave alone. She had to be his priority but Steve. . . .

"Mark!"

Mark turned to see Jesse heading towards him at a run, and he was sure that he'd never been this relieved to see the young doctor, but still he was torn. Amanda was in his care now. He needed to see that she was all right, needed to get her home, but he equally wanted to check on Steve, provide him with the comfort and support he undoubtedly needed, whether he was prepared to admit it or not. Then a thought crossed through his mind that put an ache deep into his soul, given the strained relations of the last few weeks, would his son even accept his help, his support? He sighed heavily, there was only one choice he could make.

"Jesse," Mark greeted, without any preamble; he'd asked for the same information that he had received to be relayed to the young doctor. "I'm going to get Amanda home. That's where she needs to be in case there are any calls."

Jesse stopped in front of him, glancing across to Mark's car. "How's she holding up?" He asked the deep concern showing.

Mark shook his head. "She's not, at least not at the moment. That's why I need to get her home." He hesitated, glancing across to where Steve stood.

Jesse followed his gaze, understanding the hesitation. "It's OK I'll stay here and check on Steve," he stated

Mark smiled his gratitude; it was weak but sincerely meant. With a last glance at his son, he turned his attention back to Amanda.

Jesse turned towards his friend. The parking lot was still streaming with people, bustling around with jobs to do, and yet Jesse couldn't help but note that standing in the middle of it, Steve looked utterly alone.

TO BE CONTINUED. . .


	8. Steve and Amanda Part 3

**Chapter 8:- Steve and Amanda part 3**

Jesse's car came to a halt on the driveway, parallel to the house. The police and FBI vehicles had parked round the side, leaving the front clear; the only other vehicle was Mark's.

For a moment there was no movement from either man. Finally Steve turned his head and looked up, registering the stark white paint and darkened windows of a house that was normally warm and inviting.

"What if she doesn't want me here?" he asked quietly, his tone registering defeat.

Jesse resisted the urge to sigh as he turned to look at his friend, noting with continued concern the drawn gray complexion and the heavy lines that etched into his normally smooth features. There were no words of comfort he could offer, nothing that would alleviate the pain of the situation, the deep sense of responsibility that he knew his friend felt. Platitudes and all offers of sympathy at this point would probably only serve to make him feel worse. So he stuck to the practical. "She may not," he admitted, "but she needs you. Right now she needs all of us."

Steve looked back down at his hands but didn't really see them. He absently ran his thumb along the side of his finger, trying hard not to acknowledge the slight shake that defied all of his attempts to control it. Jesse was right. He shouldn't be considering his own feelings, and his trepidation about entering the house had nothing really to do with how Amanda would feel about it and everything to do with how difficult he would find it to face her. He gave himself a mental shake. This wasn't about him. He gave a very slight nod. "We should go in," he stated, not waiting for a reply before releasing his seatbelt and unfolding his lanky frame from the passenger seat.

This time Jesse let the sigh escape, pausing for a moment in an attempt to clear his mind. He would need all of his strength over the next few hours? . . .days? . . .weeks? He hit the steering wheel in frustration allowing a soft curse to escape from his lips. How could you prepare yourself to deal with something like this? How could you help others? He drew in a deep breath, so much for mental preparation. He climbed out of the car and followed Steve, pausing to retrieve his medical bag from the trunk along the way.

DMDMDM

Time dragged slowly, seconds turned to minutes, minutes to hours, filled by tasks that were so ordinary that carrying them out in the atmosphere of fear and tension made them seem surreal. Amanda's heart was shattering piece by piece as the seconds ticked by; she shouldn't be making coffee, shouldn't be preparing food for the army of law enforcement officials who now filled her home, shouldn't be sorting out the bedding in the spare rooms as it seemed inevitable that people would stay, shouldn't be replacing the soap in the bathroom, or any of the endless array of everyday chores that she seemed to be occupying herself with.

Part of her felt that in these exceptional circumstances nothing ordinary should be happening, the whole world should somehow be different, but it wasn't.

She had spent time when she first arrived home with Dion. He had needed her, had needed reassurances that none of this was his fault. That he blamed himself was clear from the moment he'd been reunited with her, burying himself in her arms and repeating over and over that he was sorry, before dissolving into his own bout of sobbing.

At first she just held him, countering his apologies with the reassurance that 'it was ok', that 'everything would be ok', but he needed more than that.

The sobs eventually died down and he pushed himself away from the comfort of his mother's embrace. "I'm sorry mom I should have been watching him," he had finally stated

Amanda's heart tore a little more. This was hard enough for all of them without Dion feeling responsible for what had happened. "Oh honey, It's OK. That wasn't your responsibility. Uncle Steve was supposed to be taking care of you."

"But I knew he was busy," Dion replied earnestly. "He was helping to save that boy. I should've. . ."

"Now, Dion honey, I want you to listen to me carefully. None of this is your fault. Some bad people have taken your brother and they are the only ones to blame. Not you, not your uncle Steve, but the people who have done this bad thing. Do you understand me?"

Dion stared deep into his mother's eyes swayed as much by the love and sincerity that they held as he was by the words she had spoken. "Yes mom," he said, before burying his head back into her shoulder, seeking and finding comfort in the embrace.

Amanda looked up to see Mark standing watching silently from the doorway. She had known him long enough to read his thoughts. What she had just told to her own son his son needed to hear. Steve needed to hear her say that she didn't blame him, and, on a rational level, she didn't, she knew that everything she had told Dion was true. The rational part of her mind knew that, knew that the responsibility lay elsewhere, but emotionally. . . . .emotionally she had to blame him. He had left that morning with her two sons and had returned only one of them to her. She wasn't sure that she could ever forgive him for that. Whether it was his fault or not seemed irrelevant to the emotion. Her eyes filled with tears of regret. There was nothing she could do to relieve Steve's suffering, it was too tied in with her own. She held Mark's gaze for a long moment and saw the look of understanding, of compassion.

"Mom?" the silent communication was interrupted.

"Yes honey?" Amanda looked down again at her son, his head now resting to one side so that his speech was not muffled.

"Is CJ gonna be all right?" he asked, the innocence of the question begging reassurance.

The tears in Amanda's eyes overflowed. "Of course he is honey," she obliged, as the water began to track down her cheeks. She kissed him on the top of his head, looking up to meet Mark's gaze once more, as she sought some reassurance and comfort of her own. "Of course he is."

DMDMDM

Steve shook the pillow down into the case and then did his best to neaten the edges before dropping it onto the bed. The simple task took longer than it should; the actions dotted with unnecessary pauses, as Steve's mind drifted so far from the task that he did not even realise he'd stopped moving. Each time he'd fight his way back from the painful introspection to carry on with the job he'd been relieved to volunteer for. Anything to escape the tension in the downstairs rooms, which was touching on the unbearable.

He wasn't sure what finally alerted him to the fact that he wasn't alone but he looked across to the doorway to see his father standing watching him. Now that his presence had been noted, Mark walked into the room, picking up one side of the cover he wordlessly helped Steve with the last of the tasks involved in making the bed.

The silence was neutral, not comfortable as it could be when the two men shared in a familiar task and Mark felt it. He watched, waited, noting the tension and pain in his son's actions, etched on his features, but this wasn't the physical pain that his skills as a doctor would allow him to treat, this was a level of emotional pain that Mark felt ill equipped to do anything for, but he had to try. As the last cover was tucked under and Steve still hadn't looked up he decided to make his opening.

"She doesn't blame you, you know," he stated gently

"She should." Steve replied, still avoiding his father's gaze. "She was right, I was supposed to be watching him."

"From what I hear you had your hands full saving a life." Mark countered.

Steve turned and sank heavily on to the freshly made bed. He stared down at the floor. "It was still my responsibility to make sure he was all right. I should have stayed with him. There were other people who could've helped I should have. . . ." He trailed off, not knowing quite how to complete the sentence.

Mark sat down beside him, shaking his head. "No you couldn't. It's not in you to sit by when someone's life is in danger, and you had no way of knowing that this was going to happen." He paused, trying to keep the tension out of his voice. His tone neutral, "You're not to blame for any of this."

Steve tried hard to take comfort from the reassurance but somehow he couldn't. He kept coming back to the simple fact that CJ had been his responsibility. There was no escaping that.

Mark watched his son for a moment as Steve continued to stare forward, his eyes defocused. He tried again. "You have to stop blaming yourself for things over which you had no control."

There was something in Mark's tone that alerted him to the double meaning and finally he turned to meet his father's gaze. There was a moment's silence as he read the sincerity, confirmed that Mark wasn't just referring to the current situation he meant his own attack too.

Was it that easy? Could he just tell himself that he wasn't to blame, that nothing that had happened was his responsibility?

A part of him wanted to believe with an intensity that bordered on desperation. He held Mark's gaze for a fraction of a second and then his thoughts imploded. It was as though his temerity in daring to even think that he might be able to forgive himself deserved a punishment from the inner demons that plagued him. Carefully constructed walls weakened, whispering nagging doubts seeped out. Past emotions adding to the current guilt as pain twisted his gut.

He tried to cover it, swallowing hard and turning his head quickly away, but he was not quick enough. Mark caught the look of haunted anguish in his eyes.

His muscles tensed as his body prepared for a physical attack, fight or flight chemicals flooded his system. The instinct to run away was powerful, even though there was nothing to run from.

For a moment it felt like he was falling apart, for a moment he almost let it happen.

"Steve. . ." Mark began, not sure how to continue. Not sure how his words that were meant to comfort and reassure had had the opposite effect, and such a powerful effect.

The single utterance of his name was enough to anchor Steve back. A mental lifeline, as the familiar tones penetrated his suddenly jumbled thinking. He couldn't do this, couldn't allow himself to disappear into the mire of guilt and recrimination. Not here, not now, not in front of his father, but he didn't have the strength to refute the ever more insistent voices, to counter the accusations, to confront those demons both new and old, inspired by the current crisis, lingering undealt with from the last. So he resorted to the only strategy that would allow him to continue to function, the strategy that had been keeping him functioning for the last few weeks- suppression. Drawing on a rapidly dwindling inner reserve of mental strength he fought to blank his mind.

"Steve?" the tone was gentler, questioning concern evident.

This time Steve could not look at him. "I'm sorry dad, I know you want to help. . ." and I wish you could. I really wish you could. . . The sentiment went unspoken, "but this is something I'm just going to have to deal with for myself." The emphasis on the word 'I' was heavy. He stood stiffly, still not turning to look, knowing that at this point his father's unconditional love might well be his undoing. He could just about manage to blank out the emotion, confronting it; dealing with it in the current climate of crisis was beyond him. He looked at his watch. "I'm needed back downstairs," he lied obviously, moving to leave.

Mark silently watched his retreat, there was a slight pause as he reached the door, and for a moment Mark thought he might return, hoped he might return, but the moment passed and he was gone. Mark let out a heavy sigh, cursing the stoicism that he often admired in his son, cursing his own inability to be more open with his feelings, as he acknowledged that it was a trait Steve had either learned or inherited from him. It was a trait that was costing his son, and if CJ wasn't returned. . ? He let out an involuntary shiver, not wanting to consider that possibility as he practiced a little suppression of his own. Like father like son.

DMDM

The call came at 9pm. It was the third time the phone had rung that evening. The third time Amanda had her skin temperature drop to feel like ice was sliding over its surface; the third time her heart had started beating so hard that she thought it would escape from her chest, the third time her intestines had twisted in fear.

"Hello, Amanda Bentley," her voice shook slightly

"We have your son."

The tension which already made the air in the room seem oppressive increased. Several pairs of hands began to frantically type or silently signal.

Amanda wanted to throw up. "What. . .?" She barely got the word out; someone had stolen all of the moisture from her mouth. She took a breath. "What do you want?"

Steve's cell phone began vibrating in his pocket a fraction of a second before the ringing sliced through the atmosphere in the room. He flushed blood red, retreating through the door behind him as he fumbled to retrieve it from his pocket. He wasn't sure why he took the time to answer it; wasn't sure why he didn't just turn his phone off and check on it later, after all it couldn't be more important than the call from the kidnappers could it?

"Steve Sloan."

"I'm glad you answered, I would have hated to have to hurt the child."

Steve almost dropped his phone in surprise. It was the same voice, the same person who was currently delivering a ransom call to Amanda in the next room. How. . . ? His mind struggled to process the implications. "Who are you? What do you want?"

"Its very simple , at the moment Dr. Bentley is listening to a recorded message that will ask for one million dollars in ransom. You will be asked to deliver it tomorrow, and you will follow the instructions to the letter, with a small exception, and if you do not do exactly as I say, I will kill the boy."

"And if I follow your instructions?"

"He will, of course, be released unharmed."

"I want to talk to him; I want to know that he's all right." If Amanda was listening to a recorded message then that had to mean that if she spoke to CJ that was recorded too. Steve needed the reassurance that CJ was, at least up to now, alive and well."

"Uncle Steve?" the voice was full of fear.

Steve couldn't help the tears that formed in his eye. He bit his lip, the pain giving him enough focus to prevent them from falling. "CJ," he tried to sound confident, reassuring. "How're you doing?"

"I'm OK," there was a slight sniffle "but I want to come home."

"You will be soon, I promise." Steve stated, willing himself to believe it as he injected every ounce of confidence he could into the assurance.

"So, Lieutenant are you satisfied?"

Steve wanted to say no, that he needed more time to talk to CJ, there must be something he could say to help take some of the fear out of that young voice, and still a larger part of him wanted to swear at the man; to call him every name, every expletive that he knew; to threaten him with violent retribution if he harmed even a single hair on CJ's head, but he knew that it would do no good. "What do you want me to do?"

"Very good Lieutenant, that was the right answer, but first I feel we need a little test, just in case you feel it necessary to share our conversation with any of your colleagues. I want you to go back into the other room and tell them something, a fact, a thought, anything at all. I will contact you again in thirty minutes." The line went dead with an audible click. Steve dropped the phone from his ear, but it was a full minute before he made any further movement.

The room he had left had had an atmosphere of tension and barely restrained energy. The one he now entered seemed to have all of that energy released. Not a single figure was still or quiet and an endless stream of police and agents moved in and out.

Jesse spotted him and moved over. "Who was the call?" he asked, raising his voice to be heard in the semi-chaos.

"A wrong number," Steve lied, grateful that it was Jesse asking and not his father. "What did they say?"

"They want one million dollars and they want you to deliver it. Amanda's gone to talk to her parents to see about arranging it. Mark's with her." Jesse supplied. "They're going to call back with the details on the drop."

Any questions Steve was about to ask were interrupted by the lead FBI investigator. "Lieutenant Sloan?"

Steve nodded an acknowledgement.

"I'm agent Parnell, we'll need to talk you through the procedures involved for tomorrow, assuming we go ahead with delivery of the money, the kidnappers have asked for you to deliver it. It's potentially a very dangerous job and I can't force you to volunteer to do this, but since the kidnappers clearly know what you look like. . ."

"Dr Bentley is one of my best friends," Steve interrupted, 'and it's my fault that CJ was taken,' the thought like so many of his negative thoughts went unspoken. "Of course I'm going to do it."

"Ok, but I want to be sure that you appreciate the dangers involved."

"I've done this before." Steve stated. "About three years ago, I delivered the ransom in the kidnapping of a boy called Johnny Edelman. We got him back alive."

"That's good to know, I'll check out the file." He looked Steve in the eye, "but I'll still need to brief you."

Steve nodded. "I'm not going anywhere."

DMDMDM

Steve sat in the bathroom, the door locked, and waited. Staring at the clock on the digital display of his cell, he tried to decide if it was better to have as indication of the seconds ticking by or not. A minute seemed such an interminably long time.

He was so focused on staring at it; the insistent buzz of the vibration took a moment to penetrate his senses, with no accompanying sound it seemed strange; he had turned it off, but now he wished he hadn't, the familiar tones might have anchored him in reality. He hit the answer button. "Sloan."

"My we are abrupt, aren't we?."

Steve ignored the comment. "I'm listening."

"So you've been a delivery boy before Lieutenant, that should help in our favour, the FBI won't be expecting you to ditch them, and if all goes to plan then you will get CJ Bentley back alive and in one piece just as you did with Johnny. . .or should that be Joey Edelman."

Steve's heart sank. There had been the outside possibility that the kidnappers could have guessed what he would choose as his 'fact' to pass on, but not that he had deliberately got the name wrong. Their intention was clear, to prove that they had someone on the inside, and they had succeeded in that beyond any doubts Steve had. "What do you want me to do?"

"It's very simple Lieutenant," the tone was smug, patronizing. "You will follow every set of instruction to the letter. You will dutifully read out all of the information to those monitoring you, including the last set, which you will recognize from the star in the top left hand corner. At that point you will remove all of the monitoring equipment and do the exact opposite of what the instructions tell you. When you have delivered the money we will hand over the boy to you unharmed. If however, you fail to follow these instructions or you try to tell anyone about our conversation then. . .I'm sure I can leave that threat to your imagination."

Steve tried to stifle the sigh. "I'll do as you ask," he stated.

"Good, because you will not hear from me again." Again the line went dead with a click.

Steve allowed himself to slide from the position he was sitting on the edge of the bath onto the floor, considering his dilemma. If went along with what he'd been asked to do there was still every chance that CJ would not be returned alive. On the other hand if he did not go along with it, or if he told the wrong person about what he had been asked to do, then he was definitely signing the child's death warrant. He closed his eyes tightly. What was he going to do?


	9. Steve and Amanda part 4

**Steve and Amanda part 4**

Steve stood in the kitchen and glanced around cautiously. He waited until he was sure no one was looking in his direction before making his move. With a quick swallow to acknowledge the pain he was about to inflict, he deliberately let the sharp knife he was cutting with slip into his hand. He didn't have to fake the mild curse that left his lips as the blade dug into flesh, and it had the desired effect. Everyone turned to stare as blood began to stream onto the worktop. Steve clamped his other hand firmly over the wound, only lifting it to place the towel that somebody handed him in between. "Could somebody get my father please?" Steve spoke over the concerned voices.

He waited for one of the young uniforms to volunteer, checking the reactions of the others in the room for any signs of suspicion but there was only a mixture of mild concern and curiosity.

He looked down at his hand feigning his own concern. "I'm gonna try and clean this, I'll be in the bathroom," he stated, hoping that he sounded natural. Still unsure as to whether the house was bugged or there was a traitor amongst his fellow officers, it was important that he didn't give anything away. He glanced around one last time before heading for the bathroom.

He was just taking a cautious peak at the damage when Mark entered.

"Steve?" the tone was questioning.

Steve looked up like a guilty child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, well aware from endless lectures that he needed to just keep pressure on the wound and let the professionals deal with assessing the damage, but there was no look of reproach on his father's face, just continued concern. "Cut my hand," Steve offered by way of unnecessary explanation for Mark's summons, the crimson soaked towel was evidence enough.

Mark moved over pulling his glasses from his top pocket. He nodded, trying not to show how worried he really was. Steve normally didn't ask for medical help unless he had no choice, minor wounds were always strapped up and ignored until Mark insisted on checking them, so either this cut was severe or there was something else wrong. Either way Mark stepped swiftly across the room, closing the door behind him. "Let's take a look at it then," he said, putting his glasses in place and gently pulling the towel away. He allowed a slight grimace at the amount of blood and the depth of the cut. He looked at Steve over the top of his glasses. "Looks nasty, how did you do it?"

"Cutting some chicken," Steve replied, drawing in a breath as the probing, however gentle sent a shock of pain down his arm. "I did it deliberately."

Mark's gaze instantly lifted from the injury back to meet Steve's, a look of mild panic forming, as he rapidly processed the implications of such a statement. Was Steve trying to get out of being responsible for delivering the ransom? Were there deeper psychological reasons as to why he wanted to hurt himself?

The look registered in a fraction of a second before Steve continued. "I needed to talk to you," He stated earnestly.

Mark's curiosity was piqued. "And you couldn't just ask to see me?"

"Not without possibly arousing suspicion."

Now Mark really wanted to know what had driven Steve to such a painful summons, but his next question was cut off by the opening door. Agent Parnell appeared, holding on to the handle, as he remained framed in the doorway. "I just heard; how bad is it? Will you still be able to deliver the ransom tomorrow?"

Although the questions were directed at Steve, it was Mark who answered; He nodded. "He should be fine. It's not too bad but it may require a couple of stitches. Could you see if you could find Dr. Travis for me? Ask him if he could bring his bag."

Agent Parnell spared a glance down at Steve's hand and the blood soaked towel before nodding himself. "I'll see what I can do," he stated, pulling the door closed as he left.

"Stitches?" Steve asked.

"Well it's quite a deep gash," Mark replied looking back down. He handed Steve another towel. "Here keep pressure on it," he instructed. His mind flitting between his curiosity to find out what was going on, and the proper care of Steve's injury. "Besides, I'm sure that whatever it is you have to tell me you didn't want Agent Parnell involved, or you wouldn't have gone to such extremes to get me alone."

Steve gave a quick nod of acknowledgement. "Since Jess is coming anyway I might as well wait and tell you both at once."

Mark turned his attention back to the wound in an attempt to distract his curiosity. "You say you were cutting chicken?"

"Yes, why?"

Mark let out a sigh. "And you'd already cut some before you decided to use the knife on yourself?"

Steve didn't like the tone his father was using. "Yes three or four pieces, I wanted to make sure that it looked like an accident."

Mark shook his head. "Well if there ever is a next time, try to use a clean knife. The risk of infection. . ."

The rest of the lecture was cut off by Jesse's arrival. The conversation mirroring the one Steve had had with Mark, as Jesse was told that Steve had purposefully inflicted the wound on himself. The shock and mild panic were the same. The questions worded almost identically until they got to the crux of the matter.

"So why did you feel the need to cut your hand to get to talk to us?" It was Mark who asked, managing to get the question out marginally before Jesse, which was a fairly remarkable feat when Jesse was curious about something, but then Mark's curiosity had been burning for longer.

Steve sat on the edge of the bath and told them everything he could about the two phone calls, reciting verbatim the instructions he'd been given. Neither Jesse nor his father interrupted. When he'd finished there was only a tense silence.

"Woh " Jesse was the first to comment. " What are you going to do?"

Steve couldn't explain it but even faced with a question that he still could not answer, he felt a little better. Sharing the dilemma seemed to somehow diminish it. He shook his head wearily. "I don't know. I'm pretty sure that if I don't do as this guy asks then he will hurt CJ." He let out a deep breath. "What I'm not sure about is what he'll do if I do follow his instructions. If he has no intentions of letting him go, then I'd be better getting the FBI involved, at least if they're following me then there's a chance they could catch him or them before they get a chance to do anything."

"But if you speak to the wrong person. . ."

Steve dipped his head. "Then it's game over."

"So what are we going to do?" Jesse asked.

Steve stared at him for a moment. The subtle change in the question held so much meaning that it took him a few seconds to process it. He'd felt alone for so much of the last few weeks that he'd almost forgotten how good it felt to have people on your side. He looked at his father and felt a sharp stab of regret at the amount he'd been pushing him away. His gaze returned to Jesse, the 'we' was totally unquestioned. Whatever happened, whatever he did he would always have that support.

Even if he didn't deserve it, the negativity pushed its way out, the roots too deeply embedded to be countered by a little positive thought.

"Well the first thing we need to do is sort out the cut on your hand," Mark stated, "because if we get caught in here just talking, then the rest of our discussion will become pretty much academic."

Jesse took his cue and moved over to his bag, pulling out some gloves first and handing a pair to Mark. "OK let's take a look."

Steve pulled the towel away and offered his hand forward. Jesse blew out a long slow breath as he studied the wound. "Did it not occur to you to fake an injury of some sort, a wrenched shoulder, locked back or something."

Steve shook his head. "I couldn't risk people becoming suspicious. It had to look real."

"Well you certainly succeeded there." Jesse continued to probe. "Sorry," he apologised as Steve let out a sharp hiss of pain. "Did you have to cut this deep?" he asked.

"I wasn't looking when I did it." Steve admitted. "Does it really need stitches?"

"Oh yeah," Jesse replied. "I'd say five possibly six."

"Dad said a couple." Steve stated accusingly turning his attention to his father.

"I always underestimate," Mark replied. "It cuts down on the pre-stitches complaining. I've been doing it since you were six." The 'so you should be used to it by now' went unspoken.

Steve's eyes narrowed but he couldn't think of a good comeback to that. His attention switched to Jesse who was preparing a needle. "I suppose that means an injection into the hand?" Steve asked, looking distinctly unhappy at the prospect.

Jesse nodded. "You know for somebody who just dug a knife into themselves to get to talk to us I don't see how you can be squeamish about a little needle."

Steve stared at him. "Did you know you had a glint in your eye when you said that."

Mark couldn't help the small smile; the conversation was so normal, so far away from the trauma of their current situation that it provided a welcome relief. Soon they would have to face the dilemma and make plans but just for a few minutes it was good to think about something else. "Ask him what he was cutting when he did it" Mark interjected, fanning the flames.

Jesse looked at Mark catching the conspiratorial look. He turned his attention back to a slightly guilty looking Steve. "What were you cutting?" he asked.

Mark didn't give Steve a chance to answer. "Chicken," he stated.

Jesse looked aghast at Mark then back at Steve. "Steve what were you thinking, do you know how many bacteria. . ."

Steve rolled his eyes; he hadn't avoided the lecture after all.

DM DM DM

Steve bent over double, the heavy pack on his back almost overbalancing him as he attempted to draw breath into tortured lungs. Stars formed on the edge of his vision and he used all of his powers of concentration to force his breathing to slow and deepen before he hyperventilated himself into oblivion. He had just about managed to get his breathing to a point where drawing air in was no longer physically painful, when the phone in front of him began to ring. He picked it up not bothering to even say his name to the machine that had been sending him on a wild goose chase for the last hour and a half. The techies had already determined that all of the messages were being fed from a preprogrammed computer that was sitting in an unused lawyers office downtown. It had been checked out and there were obvious signs of a break in, but the techies had also determined that interfering with the program could cause it to stop running, and so everyone was holding back whilst Steve was bounced around downtown LA, with barely enough time to make it between calls and no prospect of negotiating extra time from the machine that currently determined his fate.

"Taped behind the blue dumpster." The electronic voice stated. "Next call in twelve minutes." The line went dead and Steve slammed the receiver back in place, scanning the immediate area, moving out in a spiral. Whoever was pulling the strings had a malicious sense of humour. The envelopes with the next location were frequently placed under or behind objects that were out of the line of sight of the phone booths where the call was received. With every second counting Steve was forced to search frantically at each one, and any reserves of energy he might have had were almost completely exhausted.

He swore softly, then in a louder voice proclaimed. "I'm getting too old for this."

"That's the seventeenth time Steve," Agent Parnell supplied into the earpiece he was wearing. "The only comment that is beating it now is 'Have you any idea how heavy a million dollars is?'- That's still on nineteen times."

Agent Parnell had been calling Steve by his first name since the briefing that morning, the familiarity rather than the formality of his rank easing the tension a little. The banter had been happening since stop number 3, and Steve knew that it was designed to distract him from the pain and stress of the situation and the physical exertion, and, to a degree it was working, but it had worked an awful lot better an hour ago. The runs seemed to be getting longer, the time limits tighter.

"OK I've spotted the dumpster," Steve stated, trotting over to it and pushing it away from the wall so he could get a look. Without ceremony he ripped open the, by now familiar, red envelope and read the next location.

"That's well over a mile away and you have just under nine minutes Steve," Parnell stated. "How are you holding up?"

Steve considered the question. His back ached and his shoulders felt like they were rubbed raw from the straps on the rucksack that held the ransom. The cut on his hand was beginning to throb insistently, and the headache he was developing made the bright sunlight almost painful to look at. He knew that he was dehydrated and close to exhaustion. His shirt was soaked with sweat, which also beaded on his forehead and from beneath his matted hair, running down his cheeks. Almost taunting him as his body lost more of its precious reserves of water. Even so he was fairly sure that he could make the run easily if it wasn't for the weight he was carrying, and he didn't just mean the physical burden of the ransom. "Let's just say," he panted the words out as he began running again, "I hope this is the last one." But he knew that it wasn't. There had been no star in the corner of the card.

Mark knew it too; Steve hadn't used the words that would signal to Jesse that this nightmare was almost over. He hated watching his son suffer like this. He knew that the stress alone had worn him down the last time he'd had to do this, and then he'd been delivering the ransom for a stranger, with no requirement of betrayal at the end of his run. He listened carefully to Steve's breathing. "Have you managed to find anywhere to get water?" He asked into the microphone that he'd been allowed to have on the understanding that he only spoke sparingly. Agent Parnell had been swayed by the fact that it would help keep Steve's morale up, and, given that they didn't know how long this would go on, he'd agreed.

"No," Steve answered, "Sorry there hasn't been enough time." He knew that his answer would worry Mark so he changed the subject. "Does anyone know who was the first kidnapper to use this run around with the ransom idea, because if I found out it was the writer of that Starsky and Hutch episode, I swear that I'll track him down and chase him around the park for a couple of hours with a 9mm." He paused taking a few breaths before continuing. "I mean he's gotta live somewhere in LA right?"

"I'm not sure Steve. It might have been a kidnapper who tried it first," Agent Parnell replied, "I'll see if someone can check the database and get back to you on that one." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "But, given the number of these runarounds I've been on, if I find out it was some screenwriter who dreamt up the idea, I think I might join you."

"OK this next bit is uphill so I'm gonna shut up for a while." Steve said. The last thing he wanted was the people who were watching him worrying about the lack of contact, besides it was a tactic he was using so that when he finally removed the mike it would take them that little bit longer to register that something was wrong.

He concentrated all of his efforts on putting one foot in front of the other, keeping up the rhythm, attempting to keep his breathing at a steady manageable pace.

DM DM DM

Even as he read the instructions Steve had to admit that the location had been perfectly chosen. The alleys were narrow, the access in the direction he'd been told to head was limited and it was nearly impossible, in the maze of warehouses, to get a good vantage point. By contrast, the real direction he would head led him out of the edge of the buildings into an open area where the kidnappers would easily be able to spot if he had been followed, whilst still leaving them plenty of places to hide and sneak away if necessary. By the time his backup realized they had been had, and sent in the wrong direction, the ransom would be long gone. Dutifully he read out the instructions into the open line. Adding a loud expression of pain at the end.

"Steve what is it?" Parnell asked.

"Nothing I just caught my hand," Steve replied and Mark tried not to react to the signal. Doing his best to keep his expression neutral, he knew that it was time for him to start his distraction tactics.

"Agent Parnell, you've got to put a stop to this."

"Get the units rolling to the next location." Parnell told the operative beside him before turning his attention to Mark. "Look I know this is difficult. . ."

"It's more than just difficult," Mark interrupted. "Steve's been running with a 30 pound pack for almost two hours now in blazing sunlight with no water. If this doesn't end soon, he runs the risk of collapsing from dehydration. You have to do something." It wasn't that difficult for Mark to get into the role of worried father, all of what he was saying was true. He became more animated. "There has to be some way you can help him without alerting the kidnappers. ."

Parnell stood. "Not without endangering the boy."

They both turned at the audible gasp, the colour draining from Mark's face. He hadn't counted on Amanda overhearing his distraction tactics.

DM DM DM

Steve removed the camera first, pushing the brim of his hat up so that it obscured the view. Next went the tracking device, throwing it as hard as he could in the direction that he was supposed to be running. He waited for a comment on the camera, answering with. "Yeah I'm just adjusting the hat, give me a minute," before ripping off the mike and earpiece and throwing them to the ground. He then turned and ran, heading East instead of West, taking left turns instead of right until eventually he emerged from the row of buildings into a wide open street. He scanned around, the business district deserted and quiet on a Sunday; there was no one else around. Blood thundered in his ears as he tried to process what to do next. His directions had run out but, blinking sweat out of his eyes, he spotted the phone booth about fifty yards away and figured that was where he was supposed to head. He forced weary and unresponsive muscles into action and ran the last of the distance, coming to a stop with his chest heaving from the exertion.

The screech of tyres almost caught him by surprise. The large brown sedan rolled forward, coming to a stop with an almost theatrical screech of the brakes around thirty yards away. He watched it pull away; tempted to follow its movement but something else caught his eye. He turned his head back to see CJ's small form standing still and silent. He scanned up and down quickly, relieved to see that the boy seemed to be unharmed. He took a step forward, and then his brain registered the screeching car. It swung round in a U-turn and pulled up so close that he had to step back again to avoid being hit. His attention locked back on CJ, who still stood unmoving, shaking slightly. He was too far away to make proper eye contact, to offer any reassurance. A hand appeared out of the side window of the car.

"The money." a masked figure demanded.

Steve shrugged the pack from his shoulders and handed it across, never quite pulling all of his attention away from CJ. There was no thought in his mind of trying to arrest the kidnappers; all he was interested in was getting CJ back. He wouldn't, couldn't risk dong anything to jeopordise that. The pack was yanked from his hand and pulled in through the window. Without another word, tyres squealed once more as the kidnappers pulled away.

Steve locked his attention back on CJ, and an eerie sensation rippled down his spine. He wasn't sure what made him react but every instinct screamed danger. He called on his last reserves of energy, his mind clearing as adrenaline shot through his system. The world narrowed to a tunnel that led form his current position to CJ's diminutive figure. He began to move forwards his legs pumping hard, his breathing the only thing he could hear, somehow hollow and raspy in his head. It felt like slow motion. Faster, faster, he needed to move faster. He couldn't quite explain it, but he knew that he needed to get to CJ, that the boy was still in danger. Despite having no senses that seemed to be registering the outside world, he somehow knew.

The sedan shot away from Steve, turning in another screech of wheels and sliding tyres, the back end shook as the driver aimed the car at the child and gunned the engine. If Steve had started his run a fraction of a second later he would have been too late.

He scooped CJ into his arms, his sheer momentum from the flat out run carrying him forwards, but he wasn't quite fast enough to be totally clear. Still somehow he managed to turn, to protect CJ from the impact. The car struck his hip hard, blinding pain shooting up his leg, but he remained focused enough to wrap CJ protectively into his embrace, one hand protecting the boys head as he went down, hitting the sidewalk hard as his momentum now carried him into a roll.

Jesse watched horrified as events unfolded in front of him. He ignored the instructions to remain at a cautious distance and hit the accelerator, pushing his car forward towards where Steve had fallen. The brown sedan executed another tight turn, it seemed to be heading for another try, but Jesse drove his car into its path. For a moment he thought the car had to hit his and he braced himself for the impact, but at the last second the other driver managed to swerve round him.

This time there were no u-turns, the car did not come back for a third try, instead it sped away into the distance. Jesse was relieved; he wasn't sure what he would have done if it had. His heart was beating at double its normal rate, pounding in his chest and he swallowed hard, steadying his breathing as he tried to recover from the shock. After a few deep breaths his mind was able to focus, and he turned his attention to his friend. "Steve," he shouted, leaping out over the door of the car as he sprinted to the figures on the sidewalk. CJ was sitting up and sobbing softly. Steve lay motionless.

TO BE CONTINUED. . .


	10. Steve and Amanda part 5

**Chapter 10 Steve and Amanda part 5**

Jesse did a quick visual scan of CJ as he approached. Steve's protective grip had released leaving him shocked and terrified but otherwise looking remarkably unscathed. Steve, however, was a different matter and despite paternal instincts that pushed him toward the crying child, Jesse knew that he needed to check on Steve first, clinical need outweighing all other considerations. He reached out his hand towards Steve's neck and there was the briefest of hesitations as his mind acknowledged the fear. There was a part of him that didn't want to complete the action, afraid of what he would or, more accurately, wouldn't find. Higher functions however were overridden by instinct and training, his hand moved again, expertly tracing the pulse point, relief flooding his system as he felt the slightly rapid but reassuring rhythm beneath his fingers. He checked the airway next, reassured himself that Steve was breathing and then spared a glance back to CJ as he raised the radio Steve had given him to his mouth and repeated the carefully rehearsed phrasing that Steve had given him to use in case of emergencies. He then dropped the radio to the ground, ignoring completely the explosion of chatter that his call had initiated. His mind focused once again on his patients.

"CJ?" The boy looked up at the use of his name. "CJ are you hurt? Did they hurt you?"

The boy blinked overly large, deep brown, tear-filled eyes at him. For a moment Jesse thought he was going to have to repeat himself, as there were no signs that CJ had understood or even followed what he was being asked. Not that Jesse was surprised, the trauma of the last few minutes on top of the stress of the last day would be difficult enough for an adult to deal with.

CJ blinked once more and let out a stifled sob. "Is Uncle Steve going to be all right?" he asked worriedly, looking down at the man who had scooped him up with strong arms only moments earlier and wrapped him in a protective embrace.

Jesse swallowed and almost lost his tenuous control on his emotions. He looked down at Steve himself. "I. . " he wasn't sure how to answer, he needed to do a closer examination, there were so many things he needed to check. He looked back into CJ's eyes and knew that 'I don't know' just wasn't good enough. "I'm sure he will." He stated, deciding to reply with hope, offering a short prayer that he wouldn't have to rescind that answer later. "He just needs some help right now."

"But he was hit by the car. I felt. . . ." CJ couldn't complete the sentence as the memory pushed streams of tears from his eyes. He reached out for comfort almost throwing himself forward in a desperate need for something, someone to hold him and take away the terror.

Jesse caught him and wrapped him in an embrace as small arms encircled his neck, locking themselves tightly in place; the still trembling body glued itself to his. "Shh it's OK everything's OK. You're safe now," He stated reassuringly as he rocked gently backwards and forwards. He knew that CJ needed this, the child was reacting to more than just the trauma of the last few minutes; his emotional need at least as strong as Steve's physical need. . . .maybe. . .possibly . . .and that was the problem. He still needed to examine Steve, to determine the extent of his injuries. There was every chance that his condition could deteriorate rapidly and he couldn't examine Steve with CJ clinging to his neck.

"CJ. . . CJ?"

The boy pulled his head away and once more blinked tears from his eyes. "Yeah?" the word was half formed through a sob.

"You have been so incredibly brave for the last two days," Jesse stated, finding and holding eye contact despite the awkward angle. "And I need for you to be brave for me for just a little bit longer." He looked down at Steve for a moment before turning to meet the boy's gaze again. "I have to examine Uncle Steve, so that I can see where he's hurt." He paused, reassuring himself that the boy was following what he was saying before continuing. So I need for you to sit here while I do that. Is that OK?"

CJ nodded, sparing his own concerned glance down at Steve. He could do that just for a little while. He could let go, could manage without the physical comfort of a hug for just a little longer.

"Good boy." Jesse said, placing his hands on his waist and attempting to ease him away. At first CJ seemed to cooperate allowing his clinging grip to ease but just before his arms had slipped completely from Jesse's neck, he was gripped by a sudden panic, desperately flinging himself forward again as his hands clamped back in place.

Jesse felt the fear, the small tremor that ran through CJ's small frame, and empathised with it. He could only imagine how terrified CJ had been through his ordeal and he wanted to provide comfort almost as much as CJ needed him to, but he had to check on Steve. He knew that he needed a little more of a distraction.

"S..s. . sorry," the sniffled word drifted up through clothing and hair.

"Hey, it's OK," Jesse said softly, his mind working rapidly, he needed to give the boy something other than his own fear to focus on. "I know you're scared, and you know what? Right now I think Uncle Steve is too. He's been real scared, just like you." Jesse waited for a moment for CJ to release his grip slightly and look down again at Steve.

"Really?" he asked uncertainly.

Jesse nodded. "Really," he confirmed. "So I need you to hold his hand for me. Do you think you can do that?"

Again CJ nodded

"That's my brave boy," Jesse stated as this time when he eased him away CJ let go, moving to encircle one of Steve's large hands with two of his small ones. His attention focused on Steve's face.

Jesse watched for a moment, waiting to make sure that CJ was really all right this time before switching his attention back to checking on Steve. He was concerned by the fact that Steve remained unconscious, calling his name elicited no response and he quickly found the still bleeding knot on the back of Steve's head that was responsible for the lack of reaction. He shook his head absently. Steve knew how to take a fall, knew how to protect his head from impact with the sidewalk, but his entire focus had been on protecting CJ and Jesse was in no doubt that the nasty looking head injury was a direct result of that selflessness. He quickly checked pupil response using the bright sunlight in the absence of a torch. Relieved to find the pupils equal, the reactions normal. He moved on to assess the rest of Steve's injuries. He was just finishing up when the ambulance arrived.

He held it together long enough to pass on his findings. It was then that one of the EMTs tried to get CJ to move.

"No," CJ said the volume of his young voice rising. "I have to hold his hand. I have to keep him from being scared."

Hearing the forced bravado in the tone, his own words echoed, was too much for Jesse. On top of the stress of the last 24 hours, the trauma of the last few minutes elicited emotions that were too strong for even his seasoned techniques to succeed in suppressing. Tears slid down his cheeks as he opened his arms to the small boy who hesitated only for a moment. "It's OK CJ, they'll take care of Uncle Steve." He nodded his head in the direction of the EMTs. The words were powerful, giving CJ tacit permission to let go of Steve's hand, to throw himself forward again into an embrace that he both needed and deserved. They also allowed Jesse mentally to surrender his best friend's care to those currently in a better position to deal with it. The stress of the last few hours coupled with the traumatic conclusion had left his system in shock, his emotions in a mess.

He felt the small arms encircle his neck once more and then all external sensations slipped away. His interactions with the world drifted out of his conscious control as his mind tried to sort through the myriad of emotions that demanded his attention, and his system tried to deal with stabilising the chemical cocktail evolutionary physiology had demanded his system put out to deal with crises. It was a system that undoubtedly worked, allowing the body to perform extraordinary feats in the most trying of situations. The problem was that the chemicals that allowed the body to be pushed to extremes, in nature's own version of checks and balances also came with a cost, and Jesse's system was now paying that price.

DMDMDM

Jesse stared at the opposite wall, holding loosely to the blanket that had been draped around his shoulders, his mind still numb.

He didn't remember much of the time to this point, just flashes, sensations. CJ clinging tightly to his neck, staring at the wall of the ambulance as it jolted over a bump in the road, blinking at the bright sunlight as the doors opened, holding CJ's small hand in his as the boy was transferred to a gurney, and then he was standing here, waiting, staring at the opposite wall and waiting. Dr. Taylor had given him something, a mild sedative, but he couldn't seem to remember which one. How could he not remember something as simple as that? He was supposed to be resting, but he'd insisted on coming out here to wait for Mark, to wait for Amanda, it was his job to keep them informed. He'd promised Steve, promised Mark.

The doors to the ER burst open and Mark and Amanda swept through. She was slightly ahead of him, somehow matching his long stride with her much shorter gait. "Jesse?" Amanda asked as she approached, the strain showing even in the single word.

"CJ's fine," Jesse stated, moving forward to take her hands in his. "A little bruised, a little dehydrated but otherwise fine." He nodded backwards. "He's waiting for you in Exam 2"

Amanda's eyes shone with tears, of relief, of gratitude. "Thank you," she said giving his hands a slight squeeze before hurrying past him.

He watched her until she pushed through the doors then turned his attention back to Mark.

Mark's reactions were a little slower, he moved as though in a daze, slowly turning his head back only after allowing his gaze to linger on the closed door, his thoughts momentarily with Amanda as he shared in her relief. His eyes drifted to Jesse's face but it took a moment before his young friend was fully in focus, a moment more before he could manage a coherent thought.

"How is he?" The question came out softly, a veil of emotional exhaustion masking his desire to scream the question. His thoughts had been a turbulent mess since he'd heard Jesse's radio call. The 'officer down' hitting him hard in the gut. The forced calm tone that could not hide the edge of panic as Jesse had requested immediate assistance had sent his thoughts reeling, but he'd had to deal with Amanda, her needs superceding his, even through the fear and the panic of the wait for information.

The insensitivity of the FBI agents had tore at him, he'd had to protect Amanda from their accusations, deal with the questions. Listen to agent Parnell tell Amanda that Steve's actions had nearly got her son killed.

Jesse shook his head. "They're still running tests and X-rays. Bill said he'd let me know as soon as they had anything."

"But you were there, you examined him. . ." Mark pressed, knowing that he was being unfair, pushing for answers that would be no more than experience guided guesses, but he had to know. As much as he could, he had to know. The stresses of the last twenty-four hours had taken their toll on him as much as Jesse. His empathy with Amanda and fear for CJ, who was the closest thing he had to a grandson, his fear for Steve and what this whole situation was doing to his son both physically and to his already fragile mental state, had kept him on edge for a full day even before the final dramatic conclusion, and all he knew was that Steve had been hit by a car. That was all that Parnell would tell him. 'Officer down,' 'he was hit by the kidnappers car,' ' they're running tests,' it wasn't enough information. Not by a long way. "How is he Jess?"

Jesse struggled with his fractured memory piecing together what he had discovered from the scene with what Dr Taylor had told him. "The car struck his right leg and hip, I couldn't detect any signs of a fracture but the X-rays will tell us more. He may escape with just some deep bruising. The main concern is that he hit his head on the sidewalk as he went down. He had CJ in his arms, protecting him from the fall. I'd say he had a concussion but I don't know how severe." He paused for a moment; trying to fit together anything else useful he could tell his friend. "He vomited twice in the ambulance. Bill said he was conscious but confused when they got him to the ER."

Mark nodded part of him thankful that the news wasn't worse, part of him disappointed that it wasn't better. Head injuries were always the most tricky as symptoms of the more severe injuries were not always immediate or obvious. He stared off into space, his eyes apparently focused at an object beyond Jesse's shoulder but he saw nothing, his mind running through all of the possible prognoses as he tried to relax some of the tension from his aching muscles.

"Dr Sloan, Dr Travis," Agent Parnell's sharp tones dragged both men from their contemplations and they turned to look at the approaching agent.

Agent Parnell radiated hostility and anger. Mark had seen it building over the last hour, from the moment that he realized that the loss of contact with Steve had been deliberate, through Jesse's radio call, to the drive to the hospital. The agent had tried to insist that Mark stay at the house to answer questions, but Mark had made it clear that short of arresting him that wasn't going to happen. The stand off had been tense, for a moment it had looked like Parnell might go for a 'hindering a federal investigation' charge but he had backed down, insisting instead that he drive Mark to the hospital, but making it clear that he would have questions for him when they arrived. So he had ended up as chauffeur for both Mark and Amanda, and, despite his anger, he hadn't been cruel enough to delay Amanda's reunion with her son by making her wait while he found a parking spot.

Mark bristled; he was developing his own hostility for the man, who had clearly judged Steve without waiting for his explanation. He had repeated as much to Amanda several times on the journey in. Mark had attempted to refute his interpretation but had been frustrated each time by radio calls as different Agents checked in with their findings. The feelings of impotency and frustration at not being able to come to Steve's defense only heightened by his already palpable anxiety, and by the effect that the agents words were having on his friend.

Mark turned to look at Amanda, during one of Parnell's more extended exchanges with his agents. She was staring out of the window at the passing buildings but Mark knew that she could not see them. "Amanda?" he questioned softly. She turned tear filled eyes slowly to look at him. "What he's saying, about Steve it's not.. ."

"I don't care Mark," Amanda interrupted, the look in her eyes betraying the lie. She did care; she cared deeply that the people she thought she could trust most in the world, Steve, Jesse, and even Mark himself may have betrayed that trust, may have put her son's life in danger, whatever their motives. From what Agent Parnell was telling her, they could have got CJ hurt, even killed. She cared deeply about that. What she could not do was bring herself to deal with it, not right now. Right now the only important thing was her son. Consideration of him consumed her whole consciousness to the exclusion of everything, even betrayal. "I just need to know how CJ is."

Mark nodded silently as she turned to resume her stare out the window.

Thus Mark's reaction bore its own hostility, a rare thing from him. "Agent Parnell," the tone of his greeting was enough to draw Jesse's attention as he looked between the two men, the tension thickening the air around them.

Parnell's eyes narrowed. "I have some questions that I need you both to answer. Is there somewhere we can talk?" His jaw twitched as he clenched it shut at the end of the question.

Mark looked at Jesse, then back at the agent. "Dr Travis is being treated for shock." He placed a hand protectively on Jesse's shoulder his eyes never leaving Parnell's. "We're just waiting for them to find him a room. You'll have to wait until he's been cleared by his physician before you can talk to him. As for myself," Mark paused, his expression challenging, "I made it clear that I will tell you everything as soon as I've had a chance to see my son."

He let go of Jesse for a moment moving forward slightly. "In the meantime you would do well to start questioning your own people. Someone in that house was leaking information to the kidnappers." He waited watching as the implications of his statement slowly altered the agent's expression then abruptly he turned, satisfied that his words had made the necessary impact. "Come on Jess," he said as he began to walk away.

"Dr Sloan?"

Mark paused mid- stride, drawing out the moment as if he was deciding whether to ignore or acknowledge the call. Slowly he turned.

"If what you say is true then the sooner I get a full statement from all of you including your son, the better chance we've got of identifying whoever is involved, and I'm sure I don't need to remind you that the kidnappers are still at large. If we don't catch them then they could do this again, to someone else."

Mark's shoulders sagged slightly as some of the fight drained out of him. "When I've seen. . ."

"Mark!" the cry was sharp. "Thank God you're here."

Mark turned to see Dr Bill Taylor hurrying towards him his heart instantly doubled in speed as the bottom fell out of his stomach. "Bill, What's wrong is it. . ."

"Steve's fine," Bill stated quickly before he had another patient to treat for shock, "At least he's not in any immediate danger," he elaborated. "But he's extremely confused and disoriented. The concussion seems to have caused some temporary amnesia." He swallowed, "He seems to be reliving the events of your recent attack, he thinks you're badly hurt and we won't let him see you."

The two doctors had unconsciously begun walking back towards the trauma room throughout the discussion. Jesse following a few feet behind them. They pushed through the door together, but Mark then moved forward more quickly as he saw Steve's agitated form on the gurney.

"Please," Steve's voice trembled slightly, as he tried and failed to lift himself forwards more than a few inches from the slightly raised head of the bed. "I just need to see him. How bad is he hurt? I need to. . ."

"Steve!"

Steve turned his head, not quite able to focus immediately on the white haired form, but he knew who it was. Mark was there, talking to him, approaching him rapidly. He tried to fit the evidence from his senses to the images in his mind. The incongruity almost too great. . . but he'd seen so much blood! He couldn't be. . He'd been hurt. . .Steve was sure. . .sure that he'd. . . . "Dad," the relief expressed in the single utterance was heart-wrenching. Suddenly he found the strength to move. Strength he just hadn't had moments earlier as he lifted himself forward enough to wrap his father in a protective embrace, almost throwing himself off the bed as his arms moved to encircle Mark. "Dad, thank God!"

Jesse couldn't help notice the parallels to CJs earlier quest for comfort as he watched the raw desperation of the act.

Mark was a little shocked by the movement, by the embrace. A hug from his son was a rare and private thing, usually a result of his undying affection. Discouraged from occurring too often by his own awkwardness, a byproduct of his upbringing in a generation, which encouraged suppression of such signs of emotion between adult males. Here he was aware of the scrutiny of others, even as he wanted to ignore it and focus on his son, and yet something about the desperation of the move allowed him to quell those repressive tendencies, and he returned the embrace after only a slight hesitation. "It's OK Steve I'm OK."

He held him for a moment, allowing the slight tremors to subside, allowing the physical contact to soothe the worst of his own fears, and then gently helped to rest him back onto the bed, studying him as Steve finally began to relax.

Steve tried hard to sort through his thoughts, to fit what he remembered to what he could see and hear and touch and smell. Mark was here and he was fine so what. . ? What had happened? Why couldn't he. . .?

"You were in an accident Steve," Mark stated quietly. "You hit your head. Can you tell me what you remember?"

Steve looked at him, fear clearly registering in his expression. "You were hurt," his tone was soft, "There was so much blood and. . .and it was my fault I. . They said I couldn't see you. . They said I hurt You I. ."

The words tore deeply at Mark's heart. He had suspected that Steve was still traumatized by what had happened, but under normal circumstances he would not see it so painfully expressed. He took a deep breath, cutting through the panic with a firm tone. "Steve, that all happened over a month ago and it wasn't your fault. I'm fine now, don't you remember."

Steve tried hard to sort through the jumbled mess of his thought processes, to trigger the memories, but there was nothing. "I don't. . . I'm sorry. . . I. ." He slammed his fist down by his side in frustration. "Why can't I remember? What did I do?"

Mark resisted the urge to give in to his own frustration. Steve didn't deserve this, not any of it. Seeing his son's distress caused a pain that was worse than any physical one could be. "It's OK Steve just relax." He forced a soothing calmness into his tone. " You hit your head and it's playing tricks with your memory but you'll be fine."

The nod of Steve's head was infinitesimal as he allowed himself to relax, the fear draining with the reassurances from the person he trusted above all else. If his father said everything was OK then it must be. He looked into Mark's eyes and the fear left him. "I'll be OK?" he asked plaintively.

Mark studied him for a moment, relieved that his responses were calming that he seemed less panicked. He had to decide how to answer. A moment ago reassurance had been necessary, massaging the truth a need rather than a choice, but now he needed to decide carefully how to answer. He couldn't guarantee that Steve would be fine, at least not for a while. "You need plenty of rest," he stated, "You've had some nasty knocks and you need to give yourself chance to recover."

Steve nodded again, again there was barely any movement; the pounding in his skull prevented any overt action. Rest, he could do that, especially since moving even the slightest amount sent tendrils of agony shooting up his side, not to mention draining his energy. Yes, rest seemed like a good idea.

DMDMDM

Mark scrubbed his hand over his face as he stood in the corridor, trying to compose himself. He had been in the hospital for twelve hours now. Dayshift had given over to night. He stifled a yawn. He hadn't had much sleep in the last 36 hours and he wasn't likely to be getting any anytime soon, not ideal when he hadn't fully recovered his strength from his own injury yet. Under normal circumstances he tired easily, and he knew it was only a combination of stress and adrenaline that was keeping him going now.

Steve had been moved to a room for observation. Jesse had been right about the lack of broken bones, but deep bruising covered Steve's leg from hip to thigh and he would be in need of some physio to get full movement and flexibility back. The head injury was still a cause for concern, and Steve had developed a fever, probably linked to the cut in his hand, which had become infected despite the dose of antibiotics that Jesse had given to Steve the night before. They were currently trying their third type in an attempt to get the infection under control before it caused further complications.

"Mark?"

He turned and looked into Jesse's concerned eyes as the young doctor approached. "How's he doing?"

"Temperature is still 102 but at least it's holding steady now." Mark said, trying to hide his weariness.

"Come on let me buy you a coffee." Jesse used the phrase figuratively as he had every intention of heading to the doctor's lounge. "You look like hell."

Mark hesitated, looking back at the door to Steve's room. He had only come out for a minute to get a breath of air, to bring his emotions under control. It was always hard seeing Steve so weak, so vulnerable. It was the pleading look on Jesse's face that swayed him as he looked back at the young doctor. He nodded his assent.

The two moved off down the corridor in step. "I checked in on Amanda," Jesse said, "CJ's doing fine all things considered, but they're keeping him in pediatrics overnight just to be on the safe side. Amanda's staying with him.

"That's good to hear." Mark said, genuinely relieved for her ,despite the continuing concern about Steve. He knew that Steve would be relieved too. Knew that Steve would have willingly given up his own life to save CJs. He hoped it didn't come to that.

Mark wearily sank into one of the seats as Jesse went to pour the coffees. He watched his young friend. "It's late, shouldn't you be at home?"

Jesse shook his head. "I've been asleep for most of the afternoon and evening. I've only just been released, so I checked on Amanda first and then came up here."

Mark nodded.

"Which reminds me, in the ER," Jesse asked, "you told Agent Parnell I was being treated for shock, how did you know?

"It was eighty degrees outside and you had a blanket round your shoulders and slightly glazed pupils," Mark stated.

Jesse grinned, that was Mark, no matter what the circumstances he never missed a detail. He took a sip of his coffee. "You should get some rest yourself. I'll stay with Steve, let you know if there's any change."

Mark knew that it made sense. He would do Steve no good if he was exhausted. He was just trying to decide where to go to get the much needed rest, when a familiar but unwelcome figure appeared in the door.

DMDMDM

This time he was annoyed. Porter could feel the eyes boring into him as he crossed the room and took his seat. Waves of negative energy engulfed him even through the plexiglass that separated him from his boss. Cold eyes met and drilled through his. The intensity of the stare seeming to grow with each passing second, and still the man did not speak.

Porter shifted nervously and licked his lips, glancing away for a moment as the fear caused his nerve to break. He forced himself to look back up, knowing that whatever he faced, it would be worse if he allowed his own weakness to show.

"The boy was supposed to die." Cold fury dripped from every word. "In front of him."

Porter licked lips that would just not moisten. "I know."

"She's supposed to hate him."

"She will, she does. I mean not as much as if. . . but she still thinks he betrayed her trust."

"Small comfort, if he dies."

"I know"

"And if he dies. . ." The threat was clear.

Porter swallowed again. "I know," and he did. He knew that if Steve died at this point in the game, then he would have very little time to get himself away before he met his own, probably extremely painful demise. He was being paid handsomely, and yet there were few who would take the risks of his position. The man he worked for was dangerously unstable.

"The instructions were very specific, he was not to be harmed."

"They knew that. They messed up and they're being taken care of." Porter stated, hoping fervently that that would be enough to appease his boss's anger.

The stare remained cold and otherwise unreadable. "You'll have to delay stage three a little while, give him chance to recover."

"But it's all set and. . ."

"I said delay it." The tone left no room for argument.

Porter nodded his assent. Delaying it was impossible, but he had to find a way. He was sure that another failure, even if it wasn't directly his fault would be one too many. "I'll delay it," he agreed.

DMDMDM

Agent Parnell waited until he reached the table before speaking. "Dr. Sloan, Dr Travis," he greeted as he had done earlier that day.

Mark bristled again, his anger towards the man had dissipated slightly although he could not fully forgive his verbal attacks on Steve; he had at least listened to his statement. He hadn't agreed that Steve had taken the only prudent course of action. Clearly believing that Steve should have come to him with his suspicions, and adamant that they could then have contained the leak and captured the kidnappers, as well as ensuring CJs safe return had Steve done so, but he had at least acknowledged that Steve had some justification for the course he had decided to follow.

Jesse had given his own statement before he'd gone to sleep, wanting to get it over with.

"Agent Parnell," Mark returned the greeting. "What brings you here at this time of night? Steve's still not fit to be interviewed, and even if he were he's asleep."

Parnell turned a chair round and sat straddling it, leaning on the back. "I'll admit that I am keen to interview the lieutenant," Parnell stated, "But that's not why I'm here." He paused looking between the two men. "I'm here to try to decide if your son lied to you or," he gestured between them with his fingers. "If you two lied to me."

Mark was taken aback by the comment. He opened his mouth but no words came out.

Jesse's "none of us lied," was blurted out.

Agent Parnell looked Mark directly in the eye, watching for a reaction to his next statement. "Then perhaps you can tell me how Steve answered two calls from the kidnappers on his cell, when no incoming calls were received to his number at all last night."

TO BE CONTINUED. . . .


End file.
